


glory on

by deadlifts



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Academy Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, M/M, two young adults struggling with the burdens placed upon them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24362299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlifts/pseuds/deadlifts
Summary: In 1175, Holst Goneril and Glenn Fraldarius attend the Officers Academy and do their best to meet the high expectations set forth by their respective positions.They fall for each other along the way.
Relationships: Glenn Fraldarius/Holst Goneril
Comments: 94
Kudos: 134





	1. the life you save

**Author's Note:**

> Glenn is 17 at the beginning of this fic and 18 shortly thereafter, which puts him at about 5 years older than Felix. His reason for being at the Academy despite already being a knight is addressed in the fic. 
> 
> Holst is 19 at the beginning of this fic. As in canon, he is best friends with Balthus (21-22), but Balthus-related spoilers are minimal as I don’t go into his background. 
> 
> Warnings: Although the Tragedy of Duscur does not play out within this narrative, it is on the horizon at the end, so there will be implied angst there. There are references to Glenn’s engagement to Ingrid, although it’s platonic and political, not romantic. There are some descriptions of battle injuries but nothing too graphic, and there will be sex in later chapters (the rating will be changed to Explicit and warnings will be provided in chapter notes). Also, there are some descriptions of anxiety/perfectionism.

The first time Holst and Glenn meet, they immediately get off on the wrong foot. 

And, okay, that _might_ be Holst’s fault. He’s so wound up by being at Garreg Mach — by considering what he has to achieve and what he will need to do upon graduating — that he has to do _something_ to let all of his nervous energy out. He runs all the way to the bridge that leads to the cathedral and leans so far over the stone, his head feels like it is spinning and he gets that rush he loves so much — the same one he gets from winning a sparring match or fighting in battle. Little dangerous acts like dangling his upper body from a bridge always help to clear his mind. 

For one beautiful moment, he feels that clarity. His nerves steady and his mind quiets, and then — 

There are hands on him, yanking him backward by his tunic so hard that Holst stumbles and falls right on his ass. 

That is to say, his ass collides with another person. A very angry person, he realizes, because as soon as Holst notices he is crushing someone, that someone is shoving him — just as hard as he had been yanking him a moment prior. 

“Are you insane?” 

Holst expects the voice to be guttural with anger, but is surprised that it sounds relatively pleasant despite the evident displeasure. It's mature, but contains within it a hint of boyish softness, as though it can’t quite let go of its youth. 

“I don’t think so,” Holst replies as he places a hand on the ground, careful not to touch the angry person, and pushes himself up to his feet. “Do insane people know that they’re insane?” 

He turns as he asks the question and ends up face-to-face with a shorter, pale young man around his age — maybe a little younger — with long dark hair pulled back into a loose ponytail and the most impressive scowl that Holst had ever seen twisted across a person’s face. 

“What is wrong with you?” the angry person asks — no, _demands_ to know. 

Despite his short stature and slender frame, there's something about this guy that makes him seem like a person that shouldn’t be trifled with. Holst has the distinct impression that if he reached out to touch him, he might lose a hand. He seems a little dangerous, in a way that absolutely draws Holst in. 

“I was only taking a look,” Holst replies sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“You were about to fall over.” The angry person folds his arms, entirely unimpressed. 

“Nah, I was holding on tight.” Holst gives him a smile. “Promise.” 

“Is everyone in the Alliance this stupid, or is it just you?” 

Holst’s smile broadens, since this angry person apparently has an idea of who he is. “You’ve done your homework! I’m impressed. So who are you?” 

Unfortunately, Holst hasn’t done any research into this year’s Academy attendees beyond those he already knows from the Alliance. He can tell that everything about this guy screams Faerghus, though — that much is very clear. 

Maybe if he had looked into it, he would be able to keep this conversation going. Instead, the question pushes the angry person to the brink of his patience. “I hope you fall off next time,” he says with so much disdain, Holst feels that he means it. 

Looking at Glenn Fraldarius — he’d put the name to the angry person later — is just like staring down from the bridge: lean too close to the edge, and you're likely to fall. 

And that fall wouldn’t end well. 

* * *

That fateful meeting on the bridge sets the tone of their relationship — or lack thereof. Given that they are in separate houses, they have little cause to interact with each other. When they do happen to cross paths or join together for a weekly mission, Glenn downright ignores Holst, even if Holst attempts to make conversation with him. 

In fact, Glenn seems to ignore _everyone_ , Holst soon realizes. He eats his meals alone, trains alone whenever possible, and rebukes all gestures of friendship or goodwill. And when he isn’t silently glowering, he’s picking fights. Before long, he develops an unkind reputation — Holst often hears the words “prick” and “asshole” aimed in his direction — and most people avoid him whenever possible. 

As interested in him as Holst may have been initially, that interest soon wanes, because in direct contrast to Glenn, he has no problem making friends at all. As the head of the Golden Deer, future head of House Goneril, and overall positive guy, he attracts a lot of attention from his classmates. It helps that he had a tendency to make any task fun or at least bearable; he has heard that many students are willing to do group chores if he will be their partner and he knows that he’s a coveted study-buddy. 

He stays busy, too — far too busy to worry about the conflicts of other houses. Although talented in the art of axe wielding and battle thanks to being raised on the border and permitted to join skirmishes from a young age, he needs to be the absolute best in all of his efforts. He spends most of his free time training and studying. And with the approaching Battle of the Eagle and Lion, he really has no time to dedicate to other matters. 

So for the most part, he stops thinking about Glenn. That is, until Balthus sits beside him in the dining hall one evening and slides a card and pen in front of him. 

“It’s Glenn’s birthday this weekend,” Balthus explains. “The professors are trying to get everyone to sign that. What a joke.” 

Of all the students in Garreg Mach, Balthus seems to have the most friction with Glenn. After only a couple of weeks of attending the Academy, Balthus had bragged that he could beat anyone, regardless of their weapon of choice, with his grappling skills. Glenn had overheard this claim and challenged him to a sparring match. Balthus took a hefty beating with Glenn’s training sword, leaving him wounded in body and pride. He now considers Glenn to be his biggest rival. Unfortunately for Balthus, Glenn does not seem to feel the same toward him, as he continuously rejects his requests for a rematch. 

Opening the card, Holst remarks, “Let me guess, you didn’t sign it,” and quickly scans the signatures. He sees all the names from the Blue Lion house, a few from the Black Eagles, and none from the Golden Deer. He can fix that easily, starting with Balthus. He slides the card back over to him. 

Balthus sighs heavily, as though greatly inconvenienced. “We aren’t even friends!” 

“So what? You’re just signing a card.” 

Balthus grumbles under his breath but signs his name with heavy, punctuating strokes. “I don’t see why he has to walk around with an attitude all the time.” He passes the card back to Holst. 

Holst looks around to see if Glenn is in the dining hall. He spots him at the very end of the hall, eating alone as usual. “He’s got a lot on his plate. He’s already a knight.” Shortly after meeting Glenn, Holst had done some research into the Fraldarius family and learned a few details about his background. “Plus I heard he lost his mom.” 

“Come on, that’s no excuse.” Balthus also looks to where Glenn is eating, then looks back with a scowl. “Plenty of people have tragic backgrounds and don’t end up like that. Look at me! My life isn’t easy but I’m well-adjusted.” 

Holst raises an eyebrow. “Are you saying you didn’t spend most of last night in town, blowing all your cash?” He and Balthus have been friends for most of their lives; though Balthus is a good person and generally means well, ‘well-adjusted’ wouldn’t be the first adjective that Holst would choose for him. 

“Just because I get in a little trouble now and then doesn’t mean I’m not well-adjusted!” Balthus protests. But he relents with a frustrated sigh. “Fine, forget me. What about you? You’re Mr. Positivity, and you were twelve when you saw someone killed in battle for the first time!” 

“Everyone’s different.” Holst shrugs one of his shoulders, then looks down at the card to dismiss the topic of conversation before it ventures into uncomfortable territory. He reads over the names once again, noting that no one has written a personal message. Whatever the reason behind Glenn’s demeanor, he doesn’t deserve such a cold birthday card. 

In his best handwriting, nice and large to take up some of the ample blank space, he writes: 

> _To the kind young man who saved me from falling to my death:_
> 
> _I hope that you have a warm and happy birthday. Or should I say cold, since you’re from Faerghus? Either way, I hope your day is delightful._
> 
> _Your friend,_
> 
> _Holst_

Balthus watches him write. “What the hell is that? You’re gonna give people the wrong idea.” 

“Maybe it'll inspire them to be nice,” Holst suggests as he finishes. He stands, leaving the card on the table. “Make sure everyone in the Golden Deer signs that. I don’t want us to be the class with the fewest names.” 

“Why me?” Balthus also gets to his feet, ready to argue. 

Holst flashes him a grin. “Because I’m your House Leader, and I say so.” 

Balthus groans. “Not cool, throwing your weight around like that. What are you gonna be doing?” 

“I’m going to ask our friend why he’s so grumpy all the time. That would be the best way to find out, right?” 

Balthus shakes his head. “You’re asking for trouble. And he isn’t my friend!” 

Holst crosses the dining hall. Glenn sees him before he sits down and gives him his usual disinterested, slightly annoyed expression — which morphs into _incredibly_ annoyed as soon as he realizes Holst is joining him. 

Sitting across from Glenn and giving him his best smile, he asks, “Why are you so angry all the time?” 

Glenn looks very angry as he answers, “I’m not angry.” 

An answer is better than nothing, so Holst feels inspired to continue. “Annoyed, then.” 

Glenn looks very annoyed as he answers, “I’m not annoyed.” 

“Sad, maybe?” Holst ventures. 

“I’m not — what are you trying to say?” Glenn’s jaw tightens. 

“I’m trying to get to know you,” Holst says. He leans across the table and lowers his voice. “Is it working?” 

“No.” Glenn's tone is so icy, it attracts the attention of a few students around them. Even though he hasn’t finished eating, he stands. “I’m done with this conversation.” 

“Hang on, hang on.” Holst stands, too, and puts his hands up. “I’ll leave so you can finish your food.” 

Glenn narrows his eyes at him. 

“I’m not teasing you, you know.” Then Holst reconsiders. “Okay, maybe a tiny bit of teasing, but I am curious.” 

“Are you leaving?” Glenn demands, sounding as though his patience is barely hanging on by a thread. 

“Consider me gone!” Holst calls as he walks away. 

* * *

Call him a sucker for punishment (and yeah, he is), but Holst decides to wish Glenn a happy birthday on his actual birthday. 

It doesn’t go as planned. 

Although he may not have friends at Garreg Mach, Glenn does have people who care about him outside of the monastery. He therefore does not end up spending his birthday alone. When Holst enters the dining hall, he sees that Glenn is sitting with an older man to whom he is very obviously related and two younger boys. One could be his brother, judging by his appearance, but the other is blond and dressed in an unusually refined manner. Given the whispers he hears as he walks to a table, the blond one is Prince Dimitri. 

Not wanting to interrupt their family meal, Holst takes a seat and eats with a few other students instead, making light conversation. He’s nearly done when he hears Glenn speaking as he walks by his table. “I will be with you shortly.” 

Holst looks up in time to see the older man smile and lead the two younger boys out of the hall. As soon as they are out of earshot, Glenn reaches into his uniform pocket and pulls out his birthday card. Then he slams it down on the table next to Holst. 

“What is this?” he asks. 

“Your birthday card,” Holst identifies. 

Impatiently, Glenn flips it open and points to Holst’s handwriting. “This.” 

“Your birthday...message?” Holst asks, looking up at Glenn. 

“Why did you write that?” 

“Because I wanted to wish you a happy birthday,” Holst tells him. The rest of the table snickers as they watch this exchange. “Which reminds me,” Holst continues, “Happy birthday.” 

“Save it.” Glenn leaves and does not bring the card with him. 

“How ungrateful,” comes a comment from the end of the table. “You know, I heard he’s like that because his fiancée will get jealous if he makes friends.” 

“I heard that King Lambert won’t let him make friends because they’ll distract him from the prince,” comes another. 

“He’s just a little upset that I beat him in a sparring match the other day,” Holst says cheerfully. It’s a lie, and Glenn is going to be furious if it gets back to him, but it’s better than entertaining more rumors. “Now, where was I?” 

“You were telling us about that time you had to rescue your little sister from bandits!” 

“Right, so there I was, armed with only a stick and a rock...” 

* * *

Holst has always been successful. 

He was an early reader. He took to learning how to swing an axe easily, as though he was made for it. He was a good big brother, even when Hilda took up all of the attention. He studied diligently, trained hard, and participated in battles at the border beginning at an incredibly young age. 

Every step of the way, with each new success under his belt, his parents would praise him. And then they would expect more: better achievements, faster progress, more intelligent battle plans — until Holst felt like he would be crushed under the weight of their expectations. Before he even enrolled in the Academy, his parents spoke of how well he would do, how they knew he would make them proud and make a name for the Golden Deer, how they were considering turning over their territory to him shortly after his graduation. And every step of the way Holst smiled, nodded, and promised to continue to exceed their wishes. 

Though he rarely fails at anything he tries, there have been times where he has come close, or not performed well enough, and the fallout and disappointment that resulted was always enough to make him strive even harder the next time around. Holst hates failure, hates disappointing others, and tries to be perfect in all things, _especially_ battle. 

So he understands Glenn, in a way. He may not know much about him, but he doesn’t need to; the fact that he was made a knight at the age of fifteen gives him enough information to put some of the pieces of the puzzle that is Glenn together. There's a lot of responsibility on his shoulders, and that responsibility is probably weighing him down. 

Everyone responds to the burden of expectation differently, and Holst is no exception. Sure, he keeps a positive attitude and completes most tasks with a grin on his face, but that doesn’t mean he is free of nerves — of the anxiety that comes with the threat of failure, or the internal disappointment when he doesn’t perform as well as he should. Nor is he without fear when heading into a battle or watching a man die before his eyes. 

It’s because he knows all of those feelings so deeply that he does his best to stay optimistic and smiling, that he strives to treat his peers — even the grumpy ones — with friendly gestures. He believes that optimistic confidence is the hallmark of a good leader and will inspire those who fight alongside him to give it their all. Holst tries to be the powerful beacon that everyone needs in times of stress, even when he isn’t feeling particularly bright himself. 

There are times when it becomes difficult, though. 

Like right now, standing before Hanneman with the results of his certification exam marked **FAILED** in all capital letters. 

“I studied,” Holst says, clutching the paper tightly. For weeks, that was all he did, when he wasn’t training or in class, even sacrificing some of the practice battles that were meant to prepare the Golden Deer for the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. 

“I am sure you did,” Hanneman replies. “You can try again next week.” 

“Can’t I take it again today?” Holst asks desperately. He knows he can pass if he gets another chance. He _has_ to pass. 

“No, I’m afraid not.” Hanneman smiles sympathetically at him. “One exam per week. That’s the rule.” 

Holst leaves with a sick feeling in his stomach, which he does his best to smile through until he can get to his room and shove the certification result in a drawer. Putting it out of his sight does not put it out of his mind, however, and the longer he sullenly sits, the worst he feels — disappointed in himself, wound up in his failure, desperately wanting to do something right so he can reset his equilibrium. 

His nervous energy builds until he can’t take it anymore. He grabs his axe and heads out, traveling beyond Garreg Mach’s walls until he’s a decent distance away. Then he walks along the road and talks to himself, hoping to tempt any potential bandits or money-hungry thieves that may be in the area. “Look at all this gold my parents sent me! I can’t wait to spend it all! Have me a nice dinner, maybe buy some new weapons...” 

He continues babbling to himself as he walks along the road toward the nearest town, until a small group of bandits finally approach him. There are five of them, which is dangerous for one man fighting on his own, but Holst can — _will_ — handle them and prove his worth again. 

“You must be stupid,” one of the bandits, who takes the lead in formation, calls to him. 

“Not as stupid as you,” Holst taunts back with a grin, raising his axe. 

The battle is a success, but far from effortless. Being surrounded on all sides is not the best way to go into a fight, but Holst is quick and extremely skilled with his axe. He cuts down the first two before the others manage to fully raise their weapons, then uses a well-timed combat art to take out the third while he’s in mid-strike. Unfortunately, the remaining two manage to land their attacks — Holst’s arm is sliced by a sword and he takes a dagger to his other shoulder — but they underestimate how quick he can be despite his burly size. Even after being stabbed, he manages to side step and land two hits in a row, striking them both down before they can follow up on their attacks. 

Though the aftermath is a bloody mess, the fight leaves him with that adrenaline-induced clarity of mind he always seeks, his nerves settling in the wake of his success. He’s tired from expending so much energy, but he feels a deep sense of satisfaction from proving what he set out to do, and that pleasant feeling gives him what he needs to return to Garreg Mach. 

His satisfaction is short-lived. After catching his breath by leaning against a tree, Holst attempts to push himself away from it to head back to the monastery, only to have his knees buckle beneath him. The sick feeling from earlier returns, but this time it has little to do with exam results and everything to do with his belated realization: one of the blades had been poisoned. 

He eases himself to the ground, keeping his back against the tree for stability, and tries not to move too much in the process. Moving will make the poison spread faster and he is not keen on dying over something as foolish as flunking an exam. 

He’s right next to the road, so someone happening by will see him. But a glance at the sky shows him that it looks like it may rain, which means his rescue may take time. And that’s assuming he doesn’t become the target of any additional bandits. 

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, awaiting assistance with a drifting mind, before help finally arrives. He knows he’s well into a fever, sweat breaking out across his brow and the back of his eyes burning. It’s more than enough time for him to think to himself that he should have prepared better. He should have brought an antidote and a concoction, at the least, instead of being the idiot that he is — 

Wait. 

Holst is suddenly confused — are those his thoughts? Or is that a voice speaking to him? He attempts to open his eyes. 

Kneeling beside him, looking harrowed, is Glenn. 

“Is this a fever dream?” Holst slurs. 

“You wish,” Glenn snaps back, though his voice is soft. “Quiet, I have to focus.” 

Holst’s mind drifts again, but it becomes increasingly more aware as he feels the magic of a Restore wash over him. As it works its way through his body and removes the poison, Holst is fully returned to his senses. 

“I knew you were a moron,” Glenn says as he transitions to casting Heal. Holst watches the glow spread across his shoulder 

“And I knew you had a nice streak,” Holst replies cheerfully, as if he hadn’t just been close to death. “What I didn’t know is that you study Faith.” 

“It’s a family art,” Glenn tells him without looking up from his wound. “Faith is one of our strengths.” 

“Mmm.” Holst shuts his eyes for a moment, enjoying the cool sensation of his wound being mended. 

“Apparently your strength is getting yourself into trouble. This is the second time I’ve had to save you.” 

Holst opens his eyes to find Glenn looking at him with a stern but tired expression. “I had it under control,” Holst assures him. 

Glenn scoffs. “You did not. Look at yourself. I used Restore and Heal and you’re still in rough shape.” 

It’s true. His shoulder wound isn’t fully healed, and the slash on his arm is still bleeding. “But I’ll live.” 

“Barely.” Glenn exhales and takes a seat beside him. “Give me a minute and I’ll heal you again.” 

“Thank you,” Holst beams, bumping Glenn with his wounded arm, then wincing as the motion sends a shock of pain through it. 

Glenn rolls his eyes and once again calls him a moron. Then he looks at the bodies around them and asks, “Did you fight all five of them on your own?” 

“Of course I did. I’m Holst Goneril — that’s what I do.” 

He must say it without his usual enthusiasm, because Glenn regards him with a strange expression on his face, one that is unlike his normal angry frowns. 

“What?” Holst asks. 

“Nothing,” Glenn mutters, looking away. 

They fall silent, but Holst isn’t the kind of guy to sit around quietly for very long. Eventually, he has to talk to fill the silence. “It was nice of your family to come to visit.” 

Glenn huffs. 

“What?” 

“It was pointless.” He shifts and leans his head against the tree, looking up at the darkening clouds. “The prince is too sentimental for his own good.” 

“The little blond kind?” Holst asks, also directing his attention upward. Rain is certainly coming, and fairly soon by the looks of it. “He’s what, ten?” 

“He’s nearly thirteen and he’s going to be king one day,” Glenn argues, though his tone isn’t as harsh as it normally sounds. He sounds more like a concerned parent than a knight. “He has to learn.” 

“What’s a king supposed to be like?” Holst imagines that a little sentimentality could benefit a king — humanize him, maybe endear him to his people. But he comes from the Alliance where there are so many stakeholders in ruling the country, the nobles end up being more ruthless than sentimental, only looking out for ways to propel themselves upward. Holst himself tries to be a little better than that in hopes that he won’t fall into petty noble squabbles in the future. 

“He isn’t supposed to travel across the country just to visit a knight.” Glenn picks at one of the buttons on his uniform, then seems to catch himself fidgeting and lowers his hand. 

“Sounds like a kingly thing to do to me,” Holst volunteers. 

“You also think that dangling off bridges and fighting groups of bandits by yourself are perfectly acceptable activities,” Glenn replies in a dry tone. “So forgive me if I don’t take your opinion to heart.” 

“You’re forgiven,” Holst teases, nudging Glenn again — and once again wincing. 

Glenn jerks his arm away, then moves away from him entirely, scooting over until there’s more than an arm’s space between them. “Stop doing that, or I won’t bother healing you.” 

Holst chuckles; a little pain isn’t going to kill him. It’s pretty endearing, seeing Glenn’s more concerned side, even if he delivers his concern in the form of annoyance. “You got it. No moving.” 

They fall quiet again. The wind picks up around them, the air growing cooler as the storm approaches. “Hey,” Holst eventually pipes up. “Can I ask you something?” 

“If I say no, is that going to stop you?” 

“You know me so well,” Holst says, amused. He looks at the road instead of at Glenn, since Glenn is so keen on keeping his distance, both figuratively and literally. “I was wondering. What are you doing here if you’re already a knight? Isn’t that backwards?” 

It takes Glenn a moment to respond. Holst can hear him tense up, the way his back drags against the tree as his muscles grow taut. “For the same reason you’re here even though you can kill five bandits without backup.” 

“To get stronger?” Holst asks. 

“Of course.” Glenn’s voice is tinged with irritation, but when he speaks again, it sounds as though he tries to temper it. “I formally requested the King to send me here. I may be skilled, but I still have much to learn, and I will not allow lack of education to hold me back.” 

Now Holst does look at Glenn, painfully turning himself so that he’s facing him as he finishes speaking. Glenn still looks tense, arms folded, head tilted toward his other side. He looks vulnerable, Holst determines — like someone who had to grow up too fast and is still trying to play catch-up with himself. 

Holst knows that feeling well. 

“I get it,” he says quietly. “I bet that’s why you try to avoid people, too.” 

“I need to stay focused,” Glenn confirms. “I can’t waste my time on nonsense.” 

“You know,” Holst ventures further. It’s a risk, given how much he's already tested Glenn's patience, but he believes in pushing his luck to the limit. “I also wondered why you weren’t House Leader.” 

“Let me see your shoulder.” Glenn gets to his knees and raises his hands, ready to heal him again. “It was offered to me, but I turned it down.” 

“Because it would be a distraction?” Holst moves forward and presents his shoulder. 

Glenn casts Heal, and once again, Holst is flooded with warm, comforting light. “I could be called back to Faerghus at any time. It wouldn’t be fair to accept that responsibility only to leave.” 

Holst smiles. He can’t help himself; he reaches forward, gently bumping a knuckle against Glenn’s chin — a playful gesture that infuriates him. “You’re very knightly.” 

“Don’t — stop moving,” Glenn says between clenched teeth. “And shut up.” 

One final healing session later, and it is as though they’ve switched positions: Holst now sits up, pain-free and energized, and Glenn flags, slumping against the tree. 

“Now I want to ask you something,” Glenn murmurs as thunder resounds across the sky. 

“Ask away,” Holst offers, getting to his feet. 

Glenn’s eyes follow him as he rises. “What were you doing out here?” 

Holst carefully stretches out his arm, testing it to see how well it will hold up now that it’s healed. “I was letting off some steam. That’s all.” 

Glenn allows a pause, his eyes tracking Holst’s movements. “So much for your stupid happy act, huh?” 

“What do you mean? It's not an act!" Holst stops stretching to look down at Glenn. He looks paler than normal and his fatigue is obvious; Holst has the sense that he wouldn’t be asking questions at all if he weren’t exhausted. 

They remain that way — Glenn on the ground, looking up, and Holst standing, looking down — eyes locked, neither shying away. Glenn parts his lips to say something else — 

And then the first raindrops fall, breaking the spell. 

“Shit, we need to get going,” Holst says. It’s chilly enough without them being soaked through. Considering his injury and Glenn’s lack of energy, both of them are at risk of catching their deaths from being caught in a downpour. “Can you run?” 

Glenn gives him a look that very clearly communicates that he’s second-guessing his assessment of Holst’s intelligence. “I used all my energy to heal you.” But he stands, one hand braced against the tree. 

“I’ll carry you,” Holst decides out loud. “It’s the least I can do after you saved my life.” 

“You lost a lot of blood.” The rain begins to fall in earnest. “You aren’t carrying anyone.” 

“I can definitely carry you,” Holst declares. “You don’t look heavy at all.” 

“You are _not_ carrying me.” Glenn starts walking. 

Holst follows, frowning at his back. It only takes a couple of minutes for the storm to pick up and both of them to wind up soaked, their clothes clinging to their bodies, hair plastered to their faces. 

“Sorry for this!” Holst yells, jogging forward to catch up with Glenn, and in one fell swoop, tossing him over his shoulder. He keeps a strong grip on his legs and runs toward the monastery. 

“Put me down!” Glenn yells. 

“Sorry, can’t hear you!” Holst bellows back. It isn’t entirely untrue — thunder booms just as Glenn attempts to speak — but he does have an idea of what Glenn is trying to communicate. 

Thankfully, despite his displeasure, Glenn doesn’t wiggle or fight too much. If he did, Holst would be worried about dropping him. He’s strong, but Glenn was correct in that he has lost a lot of blood and isn’t at his full capacity. 

Glenn yells one more time, but Holst’s only response is to double down on his grip with his other hand and run faster. After that, Glenn goes quiet, though he wouldn’t be heard even if he tried to speak again. The rain picks up even more, drowning out any additional sounds, and Holst is breathing too hard to listen anyway. Glenn is heavier than he looks; he may be lean, but he is all muscle. 

They’re both soaked to the bone by the time Holst sets Glenn down in the Entrance Hall and collapses on the floor. Glenn manages to look formidable despite dripping with rainwater as he regards him as though he is the most unimpressive sight in the world. To be fair, he probably is at the moment. The gatekeeper also peers at them from the door, though he doesn’t interrupt. 

“I take back everything nice I said,” Glenn informs him. “You are a moron.” 

Holst pays close attention to the shape of Glenn’s body, wondering where he hides all that muscle. With the way his shirt clings to his torso, Holst can make out the contours of tight muscles — especially when Glenn puts a hand on his hip and takes a deep, impatient breath while Holst takes his time to respond. He’s well-toned, which explains why he was so heavy to carry. 

Still breathing heavily, Holst manages to tease, “Did you...say something...nice?” 

That gets him a sharp glare. “Get up.” Glenn reaches down to attempt to hoist him up by his arm. “I’m taking you to the infirmary.” 

Of course, Holst is too heavy for Glenn to pull upward on his own so he has to do most of the work in getting to his feet. “Can we change first?” 

Instead of answering, Glenn drapes Holst’s arm over his shoulders, which is amusing because it’s entirely unnecessary. Even though Holst is weakened by blood loss and tired from their journey, he can walk. He allows it, though — enjoys it, even — because he likes seeing this begrudgingly softer side of Glenn. 

And because he can’t remember the last time anyone tried to take care of him. He’s always too busy taking care of everyone else, as a leader, as a brother, and even as a son. 

“Will you get moving,” Glenn gripes, trying to urge him forward. 

“You know, this means we’re friends now,” Holst points out as he leans just a little of his weight on Glenn. 

“Hardly,” Glenn replies, wrapping his arm around Holst’s back to keep him steady. 

“Definitely. You saved my life twice. I carried you, now you’re carrying me. That’s how friendships are made.” 

“I’m not carrying you,” Glenn protests as they walk forward together. 

“This is as close as you’ll get, so it counts. And even if you don’t want to be friends, I have to hang around you until I pay back my debt.” 

Glenn glances at him briefly. “What debt?” 

“The life debt!” Holst exclaims. “I have to save yours now, it’s only fair.” 

“That’s not how it works.” 

“Maybe not in Faerghus. But definitely in the Alliance.” 

Glenn shoots him a disbelieving look. 

“Okay, not in the Alliance. But definitely in the Goneril household.” 

“Will you shut up and focus on walking?” 

Holst does, but only because he wants to savor this moment — the way Glenn is guiding him, holding him, moving him forward and continuously glancing at him like he’s self-conscious about it. The way Glenn shivers against him and allows Holst to pull him a little closer without commenting on it. 

It feels good. Right, almost. 

Because Holst is too close the edge — poised to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Glenn misses peace and quiet & Holst makes some questionable fashion choices.


	2. almost tenderly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glenn makes his bed and has to lie in it. Holst wins some and loses some.

Every morning, Glenn follows the same routine. 

Every morning, it starts with making his bed. 

Members of the noble families, especially one as respected as Fraldarius, do not need to make their own beds. They have staff to help with tasks like that — maids who slip into rooms when they are unoccupied and gather up the laundry and tidy up messes. When he was younger and his mother patiently showed him how to tuck in sheets and smooth out wrinkles, he had made that argument: _Why do this ourselves when the maid will do it for us?_

His mother sat him in her lap and asked, _What will you do when you are away from home? When you go off to school or sleep in a tent, and there is no one to clean up after you?_ And when Glenn had said, _I’ll make it when I have to,_ his mother had imparted to him an old adage. 

_There are two people in this world. Those who take charge and make their beds and those who sit around and wait for someone else to do it._

In the way that grief can make a child double down on permanence when faced with the impermanence of life, Glenn soon decided that he would make his bed every day because it’s what she would have wanted — in the same way he would try to wipe Felix’s tears without getting too frustrated or listen to his father without too much anger. Because Glenn was the eldest: an heir, a knight-to-be, a son whose father looked at him like he would one day carry the world. 

Little kid shoulders are not meant to bear adult burdens, not even in Faerghus where it is expected of them. And maybe that’s why Glenn eventually found that pieces of himself had calcified in an effort to keep him upright — maybe that’s why his polite words turned rude, his kind smiles turned to glares. 

Or maybe it’s because at fifteen, upon being knighted, he looked at the children he had known most of his life and realized that they were an _us_ and he existed as a singularity — a prodigy with so much responsibility, he might as well be an adult. 

It isn’t that Glenn cannot make friends. He knows how to, of course. He understands the art of conversation as well as any noble — the formalities, the smiles, the polite gestures. He also knows that there is a big difference between himself and the others. Back home, he was too entrenched in his knightly duties to spend time with his peers and too young to spend time with the knights. And in Garreg Mach, he’s already at the point that so many are vying to be; he’s already elevated, which means that he’s either the target of poorly whispered rumors or he is expected to prove himself, over and over again, in combat against those who believe he could not possibly be a knight already, could not possibly be better than _them_. 

And even those annoyances aside, Glenn is here for one purpose only, and that is to learn as much as possible so he can better serve the king-to-be. He is not here to make friends or have fun. 

Because there are two people in this world: those who move forward and those who sit around with distractions. 

But then there are moments like this one — Glenn smoothing out the wrinkles of his sheets, tucking away the corners, then standing to look at his sparsely decorated dormitory — when he feels the childish, overwhelming feeling of homesickness. Not for a place, but for a time before. 

And maybe that’s the reason why, when he’s sitting alone in the dining hall later that morning, he feels — for one quick, unrestrained second — a little lighter when he sees Holst and Balthus approach his table. 

Holst is wearing his stupid signature grin, his unruly pink hair mussed in a way that makes it seem like he only ran his hand through it that morning, his broad shoulders and arms betraying none of the pain he felt upon being stabbed and doused with poison the day prior. He looks as bright as ever, and it would be blinding, if Glenn hadn’t come to the conclusion that Holst’s happiness is the pathological kind — a lifeline to which a person clings when the world is bearing down on them. 

Balthus looks comically angry, the frown on his face so deep it wrinkles his skin. 

“Do you mind if we join you?” Holst asks, adopting a hint of the formality that Glenn was beginning to think he did not have, despite being a noble from the Alliance. 

“Are you asking me?” Glenn asks. His surprise is genuine, but he doesn’t allow it to bleed into his voice. 

“Yeah, of course,” Holst replies like he hasn’t been an unwanted thorn in Glenn’s side since their first meeting. “If you don’t want us to, we’ll leave —” 

Balthus talks over him to add a surly, “Gladly.” 

“— but only if you’re really sure.” Though Holst still grins as he says it, his stare sharpens a little, in a way it did when they were sitting together under a tree — like he’s trying to see pieces of Glenn that don’t exist. 

The moment feels strangely heavy, the decision weighted in a way that can shape the course of the rest of his time at the Academy. 

He can allow them to sit, and never be free of the boisterous Golden Deer again. Or he can refuse them and finally be free of the many distractions they stick into his otherwise quiet, one-track path to his future. 

Though he does it every morning without fail, with all the care befitting a man of purpose and a knight of honor, the truth is this: Glenn has never actually liked making his bed. 

So with a shrug as if it is the easiest answer in the world, Glenn says, “Do what you want,” and allows a wrinkle into his life. 

Balthus grumbles something under his breath but takes a seat. 

Holst looks as though Glenn has just handed him a gift. “I knew you’d say that.” 

And then it’s the three of them eating together. 

* * *

And then it’s almost always the three of them eating together. 

After Glenn’s one-time allowance, Holst and Balthus seek him out for nearly every meal. If Glenn arrives before them, they hurry to join him at his chosen table. If Glenn arrives after, Holst enthusiastically waves him over to their table. If Glenn is feeling particularly disagreeable and sits on his own, Holst goes through the trouble of dragging everyone from his table to Glenn’s. It’s inescapable, frustrating, and somehow also wanted, in the way that a person can want to eat a distasteful meal simply because they are hungry. 

It isn’t just Holst and Balthus, either. Eventually, Golden Deer and Blue Lions alike feel inspired to join them to see what all the fuss is about. And during the times where Holst is absent, Glenn finds that he still isn't provided the peace and quiet that once graced his meals. Other students sit with him, talk to him, and ask him questions. Even Balthus opts to sit by him out of habit, or so he claims. 

The timing is unfortunate. Just as everyone settles into a comfortable dynamic, the Battle of the Eagle and Lion looms before them. Most of their group avoids talking about it, but not Balthus. He tries to bring it up at every opportunity, including when Glenn is trying to finish eating without a headache. 

“I could beat all of you with my bare hands!” Balthus bellows from across the table, beating his chest with a fist as if that can somehow demonstrate his strength. 

“Yeah right!” one of the Blue Lions, a short girl with a fiery temper, yells back. “You’re all talk, but once you’re on the field, you’re going to be crying for mercy!” 

“Just like you were when you sparred with Glenn!” another Blue Lion chimes in. 

Glenn sighs, thinking it’s time to end lunch early. That’s still a sore topic, and predictably, Balthus stands up, ready to throw down with anyone. 

He doesn’t get very far in his bluster. Everyone freezes in place when Holst arrives at the table with lunch plate in hand, arguments forgotten in favor of openly gaping at him. Glenn follows their stares and he, too, finds himself forgetting his annoyance with his present company in favor of surprise. Holst embraces the attention with a cheeky, “Do I have something on my face?” 

“What the hell are you wearing?” Balthus asks. 

Holst turns to the side to show off the oversized flower barrette that he has clipped onto the right side of his head. Not only is it huge and brightly rainbow-colored, it is also misshapen and looks more like a blob than a flower. 

“My sister made it for me,” Holst explains, running his fingers along the sad-looking petals. “Isn’t it great?” 

“You look ridiculous,” Glenn informs him. 

Holst takes a seat next to him, setting his plate down on the table. “Come on, like you wouldn’t wear something your brother made you.” 

“You have a brother?” Balthus asks. 

Glenn takes a bite of his meat pie and says nothing. But he thinks of Felix running up to him before he rode away, handing him his treasured antler — the one he obtained from his very first successful hunt — and telling him it would bring him luck. The antler currently sits on his desk. 

“He does,” Holst answers for him. “He’s around Hilda’s age. I bet they’re going to be good friends when they come to the Academy, just like we are.” 

“Friends,” Glenn mutters without looking up. 

Around them, the rest of the table settles as well, and quiets to eavesdrop on their conversation, as they like to do. 

“You can keep denying it all you want, but we’re definitely friends,” Holst replies cheerfully. Glenn’s attitude still doesn’t faze him. If anything, Glenn is beginning to think he likes it. The more Glenn rebukes him, the more comfortable Holst seems to grow, like having someone spurn him is the best fun he’s ever had. 

This time, however, Glenn has a true bone to pick with him. “I was not aware that friends lie.” 

“What did I lie about?” Holst asks, furrowing his brow. 

Glenn now levels him with an unflinching glare. “You have never sparred with me, let alone beat me.” He heard this rumor, which apparently has been making its way across Garreg Mach since his birthday, from a _professor_ who expressed shock that Holst managed to get the best of Glenn. 

Balthus announces, “I’m staying out of this one,” and bows his head to quietly shovel food into his mouth. 

Holst turns sheepish, his smile going crooked. “Would you believe me if I said I lied for your sake?” 

Glenn doesn’t answer, but he absolutely does not believe that. The lie serves no benefit other than to make him seem weak, when of all people at this school, he should be the least likely to get bested in combat. 

“That does it then.” Holst bangs both of his hands down on the table to underscore his decision. “We’ll have to spar.” 

“Fine,” Glenn answers, his tone begrudging, but he feels some of the tension leave his shoulders as he agrees. “Then I’ll beat you and put those rumors to rest.” 

“We’ll see about that,” Holst says. “After the Battle, though.” 

Glenn nods once in agreement. The Battle is the priority, and with it right around the corner, they all need to focus their efforts on their respective houses. 

With that resolved, Balthus once again pauses his meal to stare at Holst. 

And stare. 

And stare some more. 

Holst, who was preparing to eat his own lunch, sets down his fork. “Is watching me eat that interesting?” 

Instead of answering, Balthus asks, “What’s with all the stubble?” 

Glenn studies Holst’s face and notices it too: along Holst’s cheeks and chin, the proof that he has skipped a morning of shaving. 

Holst strokes his chin. “I’m growing out a beard. What do you think?” 

“One fashion disaster at a time is more than enough,” Glenn says flatly. 

“For once, I agree with him,” Balthus allows. 

“How did I end up making friends with the two biggest haters of fun in this school?” Holst asks, absolutely beaming, like he couldn’t think of better company. 

Balthus and Glenn may not think they have much in common, but they groan in unison. 

Holst fails to stifle his laugh. Balthus reaches across the table to punch him in the arm. Glenn rolls his eyes at them both. 

* * *

Watching Holst in battle is almost mesmerizing. 

Almost, because Glenn won’t allow himself to be distracted. This isn’t his first battle; he knows better than to allow his attention to wander. He remains focused, only sparing a glance to the one-man army that Holst proves himself to be as he cuts down student after student. But even a glimpse is enough for Glenn to realize that Holst is a sight to behold. 

Glenn himself proves a worthy opponent to any who cross his path, taking out Black Eagles and Golden Deer alike. At one point, Balthus makes a beeline for him, spinning through a combat art, only to be cut short before Glenn could best him yet again. 

Eventually, the Black Eagles have dwindled in number and the Golden Deer have only Holst remaining. It seems the Blue Lions will take the win. 

As Glenn raises a sword against a Black Eagle, two things happen in quick succession: something whirs past Glenn’s head so close to his ear, it nearly nicks him as it flies through the air and strikes the Black Eagle, and immediately thereafter, something barrels into him so hard, his sword flies out of his hand and he hits the ground. 

While he lays stunned, attempting to get air back into his shocked lungs, Glenn hears a _clink _sound, like an arrow bouncing off of metal.__

__On top of him is Holst, holding his axe like a shield, protecting Glenn from the onslaught of arrows and grinning in a way that seems almost maniacal._ _

__“What are you doing?” Glenn hisses, trying to push Holst off of him. He braces his hands against Holst’s chest and shoves, but Holst remains unmoved._ _

__“Making good on my promise to save your life!”_ _

__Glenn attempts to turn his head to the side to see the archer just in time for Holst to reach behind his back with his non-dominant hand, grab another throwing axe, and chuck it at the student, who falls._ _

__“I wasn’t going to die!” Glenn argues back, and once again tries to push Holst away. Students don’t die during the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, thanks to magic and healers, so the theatrics are pointless._ _

__“You were! In way,” Holst replies, somehow steady despite all his exertion._ _

__Glenn tries to reach his fallen sword. “We’re on opposite sides,” he says as his hands close around his hilt. He will strike Holst down, whether he “saved” him or not._ _

__“I know that,” Holst replies. Before Glenn can raise his arm, Holst leans forward and says, “Gotcha,” and gently presses the blade of his axe against Glenn’s head._ _

__Which means Glenn is out. He stares up at Holst, caught between another bout of surprise and anger — hyper-aware of the way Holst’s weight keeps him pinned, the way his body shifts when he raises his axe once more, and how his eyes soften as he sees whatever expression may be on his face._ _

__“Sorry,” Holst murmurs. He pulls away and stands in time to whirl around and strike an oncoming Blue Lion._ _

__Glenn is forced to lift himself off of the ground, dirty and bearing the burden of his loss as he passes his fellow Blue Lions off the field. He feels embarrassed — not because of being taken out so much as feeling somewhat in awe of _how_ his loss was claimed. He should be angry, infuriated by Holst’s antics, but he isn’t. He feels impressed. _ _

__Once he’s a safe distance away from the action, he turns to watch as Holst continues to clear the field, one by one._ _

__“He’s a show-off,” Balthus calls, having witnessed the whole event. He jogs up to Glenn to join in watching._ _

__“Quiet,” Glenn hushes him, refusing to look away from the field. He watches every movement — the way Holst prepares his strikes, the way he swings through combat arts — and commits them to memory._ _

__“I thought you’d be mad,” Balthus remarks, looking at Glenn instead of the frenzy that is Holst._ _

__“Not yet,” Glenn tells him, barely paying attention to his own words._ _

__“What does that mean?”_ _

__Glenn doesn’t answer, too focused on watching Holst take out the few remaining students. The Golden Deer on the sidelines erupt into cheers once there is no one left standing except for Holst. Holst is visibly exhausted but still capable of raising his axe in victory as he is declared the winner._ _

__“We still have to spar,” Glenn answers very belatedly, eyes still on Holst. The Golden Deer run up to him, crowd him, half-carry him toward the healer’s tent as Holst allows himself to finally flag, his energy depleting, his wounds undoubtedly aching. Somehow, though, despite all the commotion, his eyes find Glenn’s._ _

__Glenn can’t help the small, unbidden smile that lifts the corners of his mouth, elicited by a sense of pride that he shouldn’t feel on behalf of a student from another house and strengthened by how Holst, despite his victory, seems to be seeking his approval._ _

__The truly happy smile that Holst returns seizes Glenn in a similar fashion to how Holst seized him on the battlefield — it feels, at once, dangerous and alluring._ _

__“We’re partying tonight!” someone yells as Holst is ushered away._ _

__“You still think you can beat him?” Balthus asks disbelievingly._ _

__“I know I can,” Glenn answers, feeling more excited about training than he has in a long time._ _

* * *

____

____

Glenn doesn’t intend to go to the after party, but what begins as a single-house victory celebration soon absorbs most of Garreg Mach into its merriment. There’s food in the dining hall, alcohol not-so-secretly supplied in the knight’s hall, and conversation and dance at random places in between. Students and professors alike partake in the activities, and even some of the off-duty knights show up for food and drink. 

Eventually, Glenn’s classmates haul him away from his room to prove that the Blue Lions are not sore losers. Had Glenn avoided Holst and his tendency to draw people into his orbit, none of them would be comfortable with pestering him; now, however, it seems they aren’t as put off by his annoyed remarks as they had been in prior weeks. 

Glenn grabs a bite to eat and participates in conversation to a minimal extent, but it doesn’t take long for him to slip away from the activity of the dining hall and into the evening, eventually making himself comfortable at one of the tables in the gardens — present for the party, but from the outside, so he can avoid conversation with students whose tongues and senses of self-preservation have been loosened by drink. 

As tends to happen lately, his solitude is interrupted by the hero of the day. 

Glenn watches as Holst fights his way through yet another congratulatory crowd with two cups in hand. He tries to navigate without spilling them, which proves to be a challenge because people keep trying to get his attention, grabbing his arm or stepping in his path. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back!” Holst yells as he finally frees himself. 

Then he spots Glenn. 

“There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Holst hurries toward him, liquid sloshing over the rims of the cups now that he’s taking less care in handling them. “Here.” He holds out one of the cups to Glenn once he reaches the table. His face is slightly flush. 

“I’m not drinking,” Glenn informs him, turning his head away in rejection of both the drink and Holst. Glenn has nothing against drink, but like most of the distractions offered by the students of Garreg Mach, he doesn’t need it to throw him off course. Or worse, to embarrass himself in front of the students who still take issue with him. 

“Me either. It wouldn’t do for the future head of Goneril to stumble around and disgrace himself in the process.” Holst sets the drink on the table in front of Glenn, then sits in the chair opposite him. “It’s juice.” 

Glenn looks at his face again. The lighting is dim, but present enough for him to see the color in his cheeks. “Your face is red,” he states. But he picks up the drink and takes a small sip. Sure enough, it’s juice — sweet, but not overwhelmingly so. 

“Probably from all the running around.” Holst sips his own juice, then sets it down so he can lean back in the chair. “I’m wiped. And this doesn’t help.” He pats his ribs. Glenn can hear the protest of bandages as he does so. 

“You were injured?” While Glenn had witnessed Holst get nicked by weapons a few times, he hadn’t seen him take a serious attack, at least not while he was watching. 

“Oh, yeah. I took an arrow when I was on top of you.” Holst laughs. “Axes make bad shields, you know. They healed me but…” He runs his fingers up and down his side, “it’s going to be a few days before I’m back in top shape.” 

“Unbelievable.” Though Glenn had neglected to notice that while he was underneath Holst — he never cried out, and he must have broken the shaft off before Glenn made it to his feet — he isn’t surprised by this information. He met Holst while he was in the middle of doing something crazy; he understands that Holst has urges that lead to risk. But showing off by tackling him to the ground had been stupid, just like all his other stunts. “If you hadn’t been messing around, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.” The same could be said about that day with the bandits — for a man who is apparently concerned with his image and doing his best, he certainly puts it all on the line. 

“Winning was more fun that way though,” Holst counters with a grin. 

Begrudgingly, Glenn has to admit there is some truth to that. He’s mildly embarrassed by how entranced he had been, watching Holst tear through the remaining students on the field. And to think he had an arrow in his side the whole time — 

“You must be tired too,” Holst remarks, leaning forward. “Your face is kind of red now.” 

“I _am_ tired,” Glenn deflects in an effort to hide his growing embarrassment, “of hearing about the many new ways you find to risk your life.” 

“That’s why I need you around.” Holst raises his arms, interlocking his fingers behind his head and wincing at the pull of his injury. “You do a good job of griping at me when I do stupid things.” 

“And what do I get out of it?” Glenn asks dryly. “A headache.” 

Holst hums. “Probably. But you get to have a little fun too, right?” 

Glenn decides to ignore that in favor of asking, “Shouldn’t you be resting?” 

“Maybe.” He exhales audibly, and does indeed sound tired. “But I’m the man of the hour. Gotta make my rounds first.” 

Glenn shakes his head. “Better you than me.” 

“You do it too,” Holst points out. “In a different way.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Glenn says, even though he can guess at what Holst means. Whereas Holst is ebullient and bright, Glenn is sullen and dark; ultimately, however, they are merely two sides of the same, prematurely worn-down coin, doing their best to shine despite how tarnished they feel. 

“Me either,” Holst replies cheerfully. 

They both drink, falling quiet. Glenn allows the silence to stretch, but Holst never seems entirely comfortable with sitting quietly. 

“Hey,” he murmurs. “If you weren’t an heir or a knight, what do you think you’d be doing right now?” 

Glenn snorts at the ridiculous question. “Are you sure you haven’t been drinking?” 

“Come on, humor me. Pretend for one minute none of this matters and you’re free. What would you be doing right now?” 

Foolish as the exercise seems, Glenn tries to imagine it: life without a name, without knighthood, without Felix waiting for him back home, without the young prince in need of guidance, without Ingrid looking at him like he hung the stars in the sky. It seems an impossible task. He can’t imagine life without fighting, without purpose, without service. He’s been molded for this from the beginning. 

“It’s hard, huh?” Holst asks. “I can’t think of anything either. Guess that means we’re doing what we’re meant to do.” 

That statement is depressing. Even Holst seems to think so, because he frowns as soon as it’s out of his mouth. Stubbornly, Glenn tries to create a picture in his mind, simply to prove he can. “I’d travel,” he says. “I’d go somewhere that isn’t Faerghus or Garreg Mach.” 

“Travel,” Holst repeats. “That does sound nice.” 

He expects a follow-up question about what he’d do once out there, somewhere else, with a name unattached to history. But Holst doesn’t ask. And it’s for the best — because Glenn isn’t sure himself. 

Instead, Holst stands with a sigh, taking his cup with him. “Time to get back to it.” 

“I’m going to bed,” Glenn replies. “I’ve had enough of this for one evening.” But Glenn doesn’t rise yet — because Holst steps toward him and pauses when he is beside his chair to lay a warm hand on his shoulder. 

“Thanks,” Holst whispers as though his gratitude is a secret, despite the fact that no one is listening to them. “For not getting angry with me.” 

“I’m always angry at you,” Glenn tells him, but his lips betray him and quirk as he speaks. 

Holst notices. As loud as he can be at times, he’s never so loud that he fails to observe what happens around him. He is sharper than he lets on. 

He squeezes Glenn’s shoulder and smiles like he had after winning the battle — like Glenn has just given him a gift. 

And then he disappears into the crowd, leaving Glenn with the memory of warmth. 

* * *

There are a myriad of responsibilities to which Glenn should be attending over the next couple of weeks. He has letters from his father and Felix set beside his bed, a letter from the King requesting a report on his progress, and plenty of school work piled on his desk. He should be preparing for Holy Kingdom of Faerghus Founding Day, or practicing the new combat art he learned, or studying battle tactics. 

Instead, he trains with only one purpose: to beat Holst. 

He’s motivated in a way he hasn’t been in ages — he can hardly remember the last time he picked up a sword simply because he wanted to, rather than due to responsibility or necessity. Now he finds purpose in his practice, a thrill in the way he tailors his training to what he knows about Holst’s fighting methods. He thinks about the challenge that Holst will present and what it will be like to face him in action. 

Glenn even decides to ask Balthus if he wants to train during lunch one day, which earns him an eyebrow raise from Holst and a suspicious glare from Balthus. 

“Why now?” Balthus asks. 

“Forget it,” Glenn replies, knowing that will incite his interest. “I’ll find someone else.” 

“Hang on!” Balthus yells. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t!” 

Holst waits to comment on it until they leave the dining hall and Balthus is out of earshot. “Balthus doesn’t know any of my special moves.” 

“I didn’t think he did,” Glenn tells him, sparing a glance to see that Holst’s face is crinkled with amusement. 

“You’ve made his day, you know.” 

“That’s not why I asked him either.” 

Holst hums. Then, without warning, he throws his arm around Glenn’s shoulders. Glenn tenses with surprise, but as normally happens when Holst initiates physical contact, Glenn manages to relax almost immediately. “You’re a good guy, Glenn,” Holst remarks. 

“If you call me knightly again, I’ll punch you.” Glenn elbows him to show that he’s serious. 

“Ow!” 

Despite the exclamation, Holst doesn’t release him. He pulls him a little closer, just like he had after carrying him through the storm. 

And just like then, Glenn allows it. 

* * *

When Glenn shows up to the training grounds at the agreed upon time for his match with Holst, he discovers that they have an audience. A crowd of Blue Lions and Golden Deer have made themselves comfortable among the training dummies. Most of them are in conversation as Glenn steps into view, though they quiet down as he stops to glare at them. 

“What is this?” he asks the crowd at large. No one answers, but he notices Balthus among the Golden Deer. He gives him a pointed look, expecting an explanation. 

“Uh…” Balthus steps away from his friends to answer Glenn. “Word got out, I guess.” 

“You guess.” Glenn keeps his tone flat. He has a few ideas on how word could have spread to this extent. 

Balthus puts his hands up. “Hey, it wasn’t me! You two talking about it at lunch is what did it, I bet. Everyone wants to see the two best fighters in the school go at it.” 

“Who’d you bet on?” asks Holst as he enters the training grounds behind them. 

Both Balthus and Glenn turn to look at him. Despite the audience, Holst seems to be his usual, good-natured self. _Seems_ being the key word. Glenn notices an edge to his smile, conveying that he isn’t keen on this being a spectator sport either. 

“Who said anything about bets?” Balthus asks, though the way he avoids meeting Holst’s eyes communicates enough. 

“Great.” Glenn’s excitement wanes. This isn’t supposed to be an exhibition match; this is about a test of skill, not about entertaining the Academy. Whereas both of them wanted to win before, the stakes are now higher; whomever loses will look and feel so much worse because it will be a defeat with witnesses and gossip to follow. 

Holst nudges him with his arm. “Don’t sound so down. We’ll give them a good show.” 

“I'm not here to put on a show.” Glenn clenches his sword hand and considers leaving. He and Holst can claim that they will fight as they would without an audience, but there’s no denying that they will feel more pressure to perform and do well; neither of them are immune to such feelings, and both of them have names and reputations to uphold. 

“Hey.” Holst nudges him again. 

This time, Glenn jerks his arm back. “What?” 

Holst’s face falls, which sours Glenn’s mood further. “We can forget it, if you want,” Holst suggests. 

“No.” He wants to, on principle, but he’s the one who called for this match, and he’s the one with something to prove. Holst has already demonstrated his skill by winning the Battle of the Eagle and Lion almost entirely on his own. All Glenn has is knighthood and rumor. But it’s exactly that thinking — that he has something to prove — that shifts the dynamics of this fight. “Get an axe,” he tells Holst. 

Then Glenn walks over to the training weapons. Instead of choosing a sword, he picks up a lance. 

Swords have long been the weapon of choice for the Fraldarius family because they work best with the Aegis Shield, but it is not the only weapon they use. Glenn has been using lances since childhood in preparation for training with the prince, and once Dimitri was old enough to hold his own, he began training against his superior strength as well. It isn’t his preferred weapon, but he’s good with it. And even more importantly, Holst has never seen him fight with one. 

When Holst turns around with an axe in hand, he initially looks surprised, then his expression sets into something like recognition, as though he realizes that the tone of this match has shifted. He nods at Glenn. 

Glenn walks to the center of the training grounds. He tilts his head up, raising his chin. 

Holst approaches and the crowd around them quiets. “Should we raise the stakes?” he asks with a grin, already showboating for the crowd. Predictably, everyone chimes in at once in a loud, combined assent. 

Glenn shrugs, but the motion is stiff and displeased. 

“Whoever loses…” Holst begins, trailing off to build anticipation. “…Has to do something nice for the winner.” 

That gets a mixed reaction, groans and laughs mingling. 

Glenn rolls his eyes. “Fine. Can we start?” 

He hears someone voice their opinion from somewhere behind him: _— actually a good wager. Have you ever seen Glenn do anything nice? It’ll kill him._

Glenn shuts everyone out. He looks only at Holst and his stupid grin. 

They bow in unison. Then Holst runs forward and it begins. 

Glenn expects Holst to strike first, so he’s prepared. He parries, then attempts a lance jab. Holst laughs as he steps out of the way. It sounds wrong — contrived and pandering to the crowd. Glenn clenches his teeth and moves again. 

It continues that way — an attack, a block, a combat art, a parry — without either of them slowing down. It turns out that they are well-matched, and even with the change in tone resulting from the audience, neither of them are so affected that they slip up. 

Glenn had figured that he and Holst would be able to hold their own against each other after watching Holst during the Battle of the Eagle and Lion — had identified ways that he and Holst were similar. Despite the flair that Holst likes to add to his fights, he is ruthless, focused, and determined to come out on top. Glenn is very much the same; he was not made a knight at fifteen purely for his family name, but rather, for his skill. He can keep up with Holst, especially one-to-one, without other distractions claiming their attention. 

What starts as a simple sparring match therefore becomes a lengthy fight. By the time Holst finally gains the advantage, pushing Glenn back with a series of strikes that nearly cause him to lose footing while blocking, they are both exhausted and breathing heavily. Glenn knows he’s flagging more than Holst; Holst seems to be bolstered by every cheer he receives from the crowd, whereas Glenn does his best to pretend he doesn’t hear how Holst is the crowd favorite. Still, Glenn refuses to let up. 

As soon as he recovers from Holst’s flurry of attacks, Holst is on him again, attempting to strike him down while his form is off. It nearly works — Glenn takes yet another step backwards, and barely parries in time — but when Glenn counters with a surprise Frozen Lance attack, utilizing both magic and his lance prowess, his crest activates. His attack lands true and Holst is propelled backward, colliding with the ground. Glenn wastes no time in closing the gap. He runs to Holst, then impales the ground next to his head with his lance. 

“I win,” he pants. As the thrill of the fight slowly fades, Glenn realizes that his legs are unsteady and his arms are shaking. He’s exhausted, and by the look of him, Holst is too. His face is red, his chest is heaving, and as he moves to sit up, Glenn notices that his hands struggle with pushing him off of the ground. 

Holst also appears, for one stark moment, absolutely defeated. It’s fleeting, but the look is one that Glenn recognizes — and doesn’t like. 

“Holst,” he whispers so no one overhears his words. He reaches out a hand to help him up to his feet. “Are you alright?” 

Holst grabs his hand, but as soon as he is hoisted to his feet, he turns away from Glenn. “You saw it! Fair and square! Glenn is the better fighter!” 

Glenn is already newly annoyed with Holst’s pandering, which is only exasperated by the way the audience boos and calls for a rematch, but he’s even more irked by Holst’s choice of words. He isn’t necessarily the better fighter; they would not have fought so long and hard if the issue were so clear cut. Glenn is proud of his win, and admittedly a little smug at having put the issue of the lie to rest, but the words _better fighter_ belittle the skill that they both put into this match. 

He’s about to say as much, audience or no, but then Holst says, “Guess I better think of something nice to do for him!” and quickly weaves his way through the crowd until he manages to escape the training grounds. 

Glenn is left surrounded by a variety of voices, some congratulatory, others upset. And in the middle of it all, Balthus muttering, “Can’t believe he lost. All my money…” 

Glenn pulls away from all of them without offering any acknowledgment, but by the time he makes it out of the training grounds, Holst is already long gone. 

* * *

That night, Glenn lies awake and thinks of Holst. 

He tries not to. He tries to focus on his victory, on the fact that he shoved the lie right back in Holst’s face, on how he finally proved once and for all that he _is_ worthy of his title as a knight. But every thought leads back to Holst and the way he looked immediately after his defeat. 

Eventually, Glenn can’t take it anymore. He goes to Holst’s room and he knocks on the door. 

Holst answers with mumbled words that Glenn can’t make out through the door. It doesn't matter; they confirm what he expected: Holst isn’t sleeping either. 

So he opens the door, finding it unlocked, and steps inside. 

There’s a lit candle in the corner of the room, providing enough light for Glenn to see Holst in detail. He sits on his bed, facing his desk, wearing an expression that causes Glenn’s stomach to twist uncomfortably. It’s the same look he had when they first met, and then again after Holst faced those bandits. 

“You aren’t going to go dangle yourself off a bridge again, are you?” Glenn asks, stepping into Holst’s line of vision so that he’s no longer looking at the desk. 

Holst looks at him instead. Smiles sheepishly, just like he always does when Glenn calls him out on something stupid. Glenn’s shadow falls across his face and remains there, casting him in darkness. 

“Nah. I wouldn’t want to make you mad again.” 

“Good.” But the knot in his stomach doesn’t loosen. 

“Shouldn't you be asleep by now?” Holst asks. 

“Shouldn’t you?” Glenn counters. 

Even with the shadow across his face, Holst looks miserable. “I’m still thinking of what to do for you. If that’s why you’re here.” 

It is, in part, why Glenn is there. But not because he’s checking up on Holst’s willingness to fulfill his side of the deal. “You’ve done enough for me,” he says. From the beginning, Holst has tried to reach out to him with kindness — from the birthday card, to carrying him through the rain, to eating lunch with him. He’s the only one who bothered — who persisted, even after Glenn did his best to push back his attempts. 

Holst shakes his head but the shadow that obscures his face will not be moved. “A wager is a wager.” 

And what, Glenn thinks as he watches Holst, has he done in return? 

Whereas Holst is always so bright in the face of his burden, Glenn has always felt dark. Maybe that’s why, here in this darkness, he feels freer — can see the answer before him even though it’s covered in shadow. 

It’s time he does something nice for Holst. 

He reaches out and brushes his fingertips along the stubborn stubble of Glenn’s face, tracing the contour of his cheekbone. Holst frowns and furrows his brow — a sincere expression, unmarred by false smiles and the playacting that Holst weaves throughout his everyday life. Glenn allows his fingers to travel lower, down his jaw, over the pulse of his neck, then rest on his shoulder. 

Neither of them speak. Glenn hears Holst inhale and exhale unsteadily, a hitch in his breathing that becomes more pronounced as Glenn’s other hand settles at the base of his neck, which is warm to the touch, just like Holst himself is always so frustratingly warm and inviting. 

Holst tilts his head up and parts his lips as if he wants to ask a question. He intones the beginning of a word, breathy and unsure — 

Glenn kisses the word right off of his lips — gently, carefully, because Holst has done enough fighting for the day — a light and present press of his lips against Holst’s, lingering long enough for Holst to raise a tentative hand to touch his arm in response. 

Then Glenn steps back, leaving Holst wide-eyed and breathless, his hand still raised in the air. 

“Consider your wager fulfilled,” Glenn tells him. He intends for the words to be firm and final, but finds them weakened on his tongue — nearly a whisper, drained of strength. 

For once, Holst is speechless. He brings his fingers to his lips and touches them as if he’ll be able to feel the proof of what just happened. 

“Get some sleep,” Glenn tells him. 

He leaves and shuts the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Things heat up


	3. like a lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the weather grows colder, things begin to heat up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the rating is now Explicit.
> 
> Chapter warnings: Non-life threatening injury (mention of blood) and a blow job in a semi-public place (without being caught)

Holst is a coward. 

For all his prowess on the battlefield and all his time spent putting himself in risky situations, deep down inside, he has plenty of fears. He’s afraid of failure, of disappointing his parents and messing up as the Goneril heir. He’s afraid of losing, especially when that loss is put on display for most of the Academy. 

And he’s afraid of the _after_ — the part where he has to suck up all his feelings and put a smile on his face like nothing happened. 

He wasn’t positive that he’d win against Glenn — he knows that Glenn is a trained knight and he’s seen the way he fights firsthand — but he thought he had a good chance, especially once Glenn selected a lance as his weapon of choice. More than that, he felt like he _had_ to win, just like he feels like he has to excel in everything that he does. 

He feels bad for thinking that way when Glenn is the one shrouded in unkind rumors about his abilities. He’s even proud of him for doing so well, and he _is_ happy that Glenn can now shove his win in the face of anyone who questions how fit he is for knighthood. Holst also knows that this is all his fault, from the lie to the offer to spar to playing up the crowd. He’s the one responsible for the big mess that their match became. 

He can’t blame Glenn. He doesn’t _want_ to blame Glenn. But that doesn’t mean he feels good about his loss or that he wants to face the Academy after everyone witnessed it. 

He mulls all of this over while lying in his bed, comes to the conclusion that he’s a complete idiot, then turns onto his stomach to groan into his pillow. “What good is my crest if it never works when I need it to?” 

“Dunno,” Balthus replies from where he’s seated on the floor, flipping through the notes Holst took during class earlier. Balthus hasn’t liked talking about crests since they started at the Academy, so he predictably says nothing more on the topic. 

Holst groans again, more dramatically this time. 

“It’s almost time for dinner,” Balthus announces, gathering the notes in a pile and standing to set them on the desk. 

“I’m not going,” Holst says to his pillow. 

“You skipped lunch,” Balthus points out. 

“I’ll starve,” Holst retorts. 

Balthus sits on the bed beside him. The mattress dips. Holst peeks out from his pillow to look at him. 

“You’re being weird,” Balthus tells him, yanking the pillow away from him. Holst is forced to lie his head on the mattress instead. “Weirder than usual, I mean.” 

Holst has to admit that he’s right. He _is_ being weird, and really, it has little to do with his feelings regarding his loss. His spirits are being dragged down by one simple but unrelenting thought: “I think Glenn pities me.” 

“What?” Balthus asks with so much energy, he might as well be yelling for the entire dormitory to hear. 

Holst spent the entirety of the last day going over the kiss in his mind. The only conclusion upon which he’s been able to settle is that Glenn, who has seen more of Holst’s struggles than anyone at the Academy, save for Balthus, decided to wave the terms of their wager and give Holst a consolation prize. His loss, and the way he responded to it, was enough to make Glenn feel sorry for him. 

It doesn’t matter how good it felt in the moment — how caught off guard he had been when Glenn touched his face, kissed his lips, and stirred within him a yearning once he pulled away — it’s ruined by that impression. That he, the future head of House Goneril, has Glenn’s sympathies. 

Worst of all, he can’t even explain all of this to Balthus, because admitting to kissing your mutual buddy would tip the scales of weird and make everything uncomfortable for everyone. 

In short, Holst still feels like an idiot. 

Balthus tosses the pillow on top of Holst’s head. “Do you really think Glenn seems like the pitying type?” For all his bravado, Balthus has always been more logical than he allows himself to seem; his intelligence is usually masked by his poor choices, like gambling all his money away on a bet that his best friend would win a fight, but he shows it when necessary. “He beat me and he hasn’t shown me any pity at all.” 

Holst has to agree with that point. He highly doubts Glenn kissed Balthus after their match. But Glenn wasn’t friends with them then, and now — 

He imagines Glenn kissing Balthus and feels even worse. “Ugh, I couldn’t eat if I wanted to.” 

Balthus sighs dramatically, but when he responds, his tone is serious. “Look, if you tell him I said this, I’ll kill you...but you’re gonna give him the wrong idea. He might have the worst attitude of anyone at this Academy, but he has feelings too.” 

“Of all times for you to decide Glenn deserves friends,” Holst laments. But Balthus is right. Regardless of his reasoning behind the kiss, Glenn doesn't deserve to be ignored. 

He forces himself up into a sitting position, the pillow flopping onto the bed in the process. Balthus claps him on the shoulder. “There you go.” He chuckles. “You know you can’t stand it when he’s eating alone or stewing in his thoughts.” 

He’s right about that, too. 

Holst makes himself presentable and they walk to the dining hall together. Glenn has a table to himself, which is a little strange. Lately he’s been spending time with students from both the Blue Lions and Golden Deer, and Holst had thought his win would make him more popular. 

“I’ll grab some food,” Balthus tells him, walking off to get in line. 

Holst approaches the table, catching Glenn’s attention in the process. An expression of relief passes across his face; it’s so fleeting, Holst almost thinks he imagined it, especially because Glenn follows it up with a glare that appears colder than usual. 

Holst takes a seat next to Glenn, trying not to feel awkward. “Where is everyone?” he asks. 

Glenn shrugs. “I don’t keep tabs on your fans.” 

“My fans?” Holst frowns. “They should be your fans now.” 

Glenn huffs humorlessly. 

“Wait,” Holst says. “Do you mean that because —” 

Glenn doesn’t allow him to finish. “Where’s your food?” 

The deflection is an answer in itself, but Holst still tries again. “Glenn…” 

“Are you eating or not?” Glenn narrows his eyes. He seems defensive, ready to jump at anything that Holst might say in reply. 

Deciding that he doesn’t want to keep provoking Glenn given the recent developments in their friendship, Holst stops pressing him. Instead, he answers Glenn’s question with a shake of his head. “I don’t have much of an appetite today. I might be coming down with something.” 

To Holst’s surprise, Glenn’s expression actually softens upon hearing that. And then he smiles a small but very apparent smile, as though it’s the best news he’s heard all day. 

It doesn’t make Holst feel any better. 

“I knew you were acting off. I thought —” He rolls his shoulders. “It doesn’t matter.” 

Just as Holst is thinking about heading back to his room now that he’s given an excuse, Glenn reaches out to him, his hand moving toward his forehead in one smooth motion, as sure as it is when wielding a blade or lance. He catches himself when it’s halfway to Holst’s forehead and pauses with it comically lingering in front of Holst’s face, his cheeks reddening as he realizes what he was about to do. 

Holst widens his eyes and can’t help the surprise that he knows is plainly revealed in his expression. 

Glenn pulls his hand back so quickly his elbow knocks against the table, which has to hurt, but he doesn’t let the pain show. He inhales a quick, annoyed breath and mutters, “Blame Felix for that one.” He looks down at his plate but moves his hands into his lap and keeps them there. 

Balthus arrives at the table with so much food on his plate, he could be feeding two people instead of one. He sits across from them, setting the plate down with a loud _clink_. He looks at Glenn, then at Holst, then at Glenn again. “Uh...did I miss something?” 

Glenn doesn’t answer. 

Holst gives him a belated, “No,” but keeps his eyes on Glenn, who stares down at his plate. 

Holst realizes he has a choice. He could allow this awkward, unsure tension between them to linger until it suffocates the both them out of this friendship. Or he could try to restore normalcy to their situation by returning to his usual playful self, and treat the fight and the subsequent kiss as minor mishaps that mean nothing. 

He makes his decision by grabbing Glenn’s arm and pulling his hand to his forehead. Glenn has no choice but to look at him now, torn between surprise and anger, the two emotions warring for dominance over his face. 

But he does not try to yank his hand back. 

“How do I feel?” Holst asks, holding his hand in place. Glenn adjusts his hand so that his palm lies flat against Holst’s forehead. Holst keeps his hand atop Glenn’s. 

Watching them from across the table, Balthus says, “ _Oh_ ,” like the scene before him suddenly makes sense. 

Glenn’s eyes meet Holst’s, anger and surprise giving way into an unusually kind expression. “Warm,” he murmurs. 

When Holst releases his hand, Glenn keeps it against his forehead for a heartbeat longer. 

Then Balthus clears his throat and the moment ends. 

And everything returns to normal. 

* * *

While Holst settles back into a comfortable dynamic with his friends, winter approaches and brings with it the season of celebration. As the Red Wolf Moon waxes toward full in the sky, the monastery begins to prepare for two important events: Holy Kingdom of Faerghus Founding Day and the next moon’s White Heron Cup. Despite those two events claiming the attention of the monastery staff, all anyone can talk about is the ball scheduled for the end of the year. 

Everyone except for Glenn, who grows significantly quieter as the Red Wolf Moon grows full. He begins to miss meals and eventually stops showing up altogether. 

Only unlike with Holst, his absence has nothing to do with the complications of sparring matches and kisses. Rather, his attention is entirely claimed by Holy Kingdom of Faerghus Founding Day, a topic that Glenn does not want to talk about even though the preparations begin to eclipse all his other school activities. 

“The king is coming,” is all Glenn had been willing to explain. “All of the Blue Lions have to prepare.” 

The Golden Deer and the Black Eagle are exempt from the festivities because Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd isn’t their king, but Holst still attempts to interject himself into the planning. “Let me help,” he had offered. “What can I do?” 

Glenn had told him to mind his own business, more terse than usual under the strain. 

Which is why, after nearly a week of barely seeing Glenn, Holst hesitates when he finds him sitting on the steps outside the dormitory building upon his return from a late night spent in the library. Glenn wears no cloak, despite the chill in the air, and ultimately that’s what spurs Holst into talking to him. He sits down beside Glenn and follows his gaze up to look at the moon, which appears large and somewhat menacing in its near-fullness. 

“Aren’t you cold?” he asks. “I know Faerghus is worse, but it’s chilly tonight.” 

“No,” Glenn replies absently, keeping his eyes on the sky. 

Holst doubts that. He bumps his knuckles against Glenn’s hand and finds it predictably icy. “Not cold at all, huh?” He unclasps his cloak and shifts closer so he can drape it over both their shoulders. It’s too small to cover both of them, but with the two of them pressed against each other, it at least provides some shared heat. 

That earns him both Glenn’s full attention and a halfhearted glare. “This is unnecessary.” Despite his words, he grasps the hem of the cloak before it falls off his shoulder. 

“I love to do unnecessary things,” Holst replies with a chuckle. “You know that.” 

Glenn makes a small noise at that — not quite a laugh, but close enough. “You do.” 

“Want to talk about it?” Holst asks. “I happen to be a good listener.” 

“You’re a good talker,” Glenn counters. 

“I‘m good at many things.” Holst bumps Glenn’s leg with his own. 

Glenn is quiet for a while after that. Holst has never been good at remaining quiet — the longer a silence stretches on, the more difficult it is for him to refrain from speaking, from trying to fill it with something, even if that something is inane conversation. But for Glenn, he holds his tongue and gives him the time he needs. 

...For about three minutes. Then he admits, “Okay, you’re right, my real talent is talking.” 

This time, Glenn laughs for real. Holst feels warm in a way that has nothing to do with their combined body heat. 

Glenn inhales slowly — Holst feels his arm shift with the rising of his chest, then shift again as he exhales. “I’m thinking about leaving,” Glenn confesses quietly. “At the end of Holy Kingdom of Faerghus Founding Day.” 

Holst did not enter this conversation with expectations, but he ends up so surprised by this admission that he’s rendered speechless. Just a couple of months ago, at the very beginning of their unlikely friendship, Glenn had discussed the importance of his education — had said that he petitioned the king himself to come to the Academy. This change seems drastic and unlike Glenn. 

“Why?” he finally breathes, pulling back so he can get a good look at Glenn. His portion of the cloak slides off his shoulders, but he ignores it in favor of watching Glenn. 

Glenn looks surprised too, which confuses Holst further. “I didn’t think you’d be this shocked,” Glenn admits. 

“Glenn,” Holst says, the name more emotional on his lips than he wants it to be. “Of course I’m shocked that you want to leave.” 

Absently, Glenn adjusts the cloak, pulling it tightly around his shoulders. “I thought you’d try to give me a smile and tell me to do what I think is best. Not,” with the cloak held fast in his hand, he gestures up and down toward Holst’s face. “This.” 

Holst touches his mouth in a feeble attempt to identify the expression that is on his face. “Is that what you want?” he asks. 

“That isn’t the issue.” 

Holst has the increasing sense that this is a one-sided conversation, because he’s clearly missing important pieces to the puzzle that is Glenn’s decision. “Why, then? You can’t really want to leave.” 

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Holst realizes they are wrong. Thinking back across the two months that he and Glenn have been friends, there are plenty reasons for him to want to leave: the rumors, the hostility from some of his classmates — 

And Holst himself, in the middle of all of it, messing up the calm order that was his life in the name of his idea of what Glenn needed — friendship and a smile. 

“I’m getting distracted,” Glenn replies. “Losing focus on what’s important.” 

_So what?_ Holst wants to ask. _Aren’t you allowed a little distraction?_ But he knows that’s hypocritical of him; of all people, he can’t judge Glenn for wanting to do his best, even if his version of the best is vastly different from Holst’s. 

“There are only a few more months left,” Holst points out, doing his best to fight the disappointment that threatens to leak into his tone. Though he’s no longer wearing his cloak, he feels uncomfortably hot, the chill in the air barely noticeable. 

“And the next month is going to be spent on a ball.” Glenn sounds so disapproving, his words come across disingenuous, like he’s trying to will himself to find the ball displeasing. 

Holst doesn’t buy it. He may not always act like the epitome of nobility, but he is very much a noble, and balls are par for the course for people like them. Glenn has been to his fair share, he knows, and even if he snubs the monastery winter ball, it’s only a matter of time before he’s shuffled off to one in Faerghus. 

“You’re the most focused person I know,” Holst argues. “A ball isn’t going to hold you back.” 

Glenn shrugs, the motion tense and defensive. “What do you know about my focus?” 

That stings a little, but Holst allows it to slide off of him the same way he’s always paid little mind to Glenn’s attitude. “Stay for the ball,” he blurts instead. 

That earns him a disdainful snort. “Why?” 

“You’ve worked hard until now,” Holst replies. “A ball may be a distraction, but it’s a distraction you’ve earned.” 

In truth, his motivations are selfish. He and Glenn will eventually have to go their separate ways simply because they are from two different sides of the country. They have responsibilities that will inevitably get in the way of their friendship. But Holst isn’t ready for that to happen yet. All those times he said Glenn keeps him from doing stupid things weren’t merely for Glenn’s benefit; it’s the truth. Whereas before Glenn had been someone Holst wanted to befriend, he’s now important in Holst’s life — and he doesn’t want that significance to come to a premature end. 

“And if I say no?” Glenn challenges. 

“Then I’ll smile and tell you to do what you think is best.” 

Glenn’s face turns unreadable — Holst thinks it rests somewhere around disgust, but he’s starting to wonder if he’s able to read Glenn at all. 

“I don’t want that,” Glenn says firmly. He stands, pulls the cloak off of his shoulders, and then bends to drape it over Holst’s back. “Until the ball, then.” 

As he watches Glenn walk away, Holst murmurs, “Until the ball.” 

And he realizes that in relying on Glenn to keep him from doing anything _too_ stupid, he did the stupidest thing of all. 

He fell. 

* * *

Holst spends so much of his time focused outward, with his duties and goals obscuring his vision, that he doesn’t spend a lot of time looking inward. He doesn’t dig beneath the ever-present desire to succeed to the other feelings that simmer under the surface. It doesn’t occur to him that the kiss may have meant something — to _him_ — until Glenn attempts to brush everything off and leave. He doesn’t notice that his thoughts have transitioned from _my friends, including Glenn_ to _Glenn and my friends_ until Glenn is walking away with a promise of borrowed time. 

This is problematic for several reasons: their different allegiances, their noble obligations, the fact that Glenn has a fiancée, and now, his plan to leave the Academy. 

Holst decides it doesn’t matter. None of the reasons why he should distance himself from Glenn are important when there is a much larger problem at hand. Glenn, facing down a lifetime of service, is trying to advance his timeline into that service. Maybe it’s because Holst can relate, or maybe it’s because his newly acknowledged feelings have made him selfish, but he doesn’t want that to happen. 

“We need to have some fun,” Holst says out loud as he runs a hand through his hair several times in an attempt to style it. “How do I look?” 

“Stuffy and formal like the rest of us,” Balthus grumbles, looking him up and down. They're both dressed in formal Academy attire and neither of them are comfortable. “Why are you going on about fun when we’re about to spend hours listening to boring speeches?” 

Balthus has been annoyed with their evening plans since Holst convinced him to come. The Golden Deer are not required to attend the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus Founding Day processions, but Holst is going to show his support for Glenn, who has spent more time preparing for this event than he has doing anything else. 

Glenn doesn’t know he’s coming, but he’s familiar enough with Holst’s antics that he shouldn’t be surprised. 

“Planning ahead,” Holst answers cheerfully, leading them out of the room. 

The events are as boring as Balthus expected: first a speech from Archbishop Rhea in the cathedral, then a series of speeches from the King, who stands with the prince at his side, and Duke Fraldarius, his right-hand man. Following those, the Blue Lions demonstrate their progress in their fields. They start with a sword tournament, which would be interesting if Glenn were to participate, and then follow up with performances from the students who study Reason and Faith. After that, the audience is shuffled outside to observe the only interesting event of the day: jousting. 

Lady Rhea announces that only Faerghus knights will be participating in this exciting and dangerous exhibition. Holst therefore knows to expect Glenn to emerge onto the field with lance in hand, but his breath still catches in his chest when he comes into view, riding a stunning white horse and clad in decorated armor. His hair is fastened into an impeccably tight bun and his face set in determination. 

“They’re making him participate?” Balthus asks, sounding suspiciously close to disapproving. 

“This must be what he was practicing for.” Holst imagines it: every day, Glenn taking his horse out of the stables, running through practice drills — alone because he wouldn’t allow anyone to help him. 

“He’ll be fine,” Balthus adds. Holst isn’t sure who he is trying to convince. 

Both of them, most likely. 

“He knows what he’s doing,” Holst agrees, but he nervously fiddles with his cloak. 

There is no denying that Glenn is a sight to behold as he dons his helm and awaits his opponent. Holst glances around the gathered audience and discovers that everyone’s eyes are fixed on him. That collective attention doesn’t wander even as his opponent trots into view to wave to the audience. 

The first match begins and ends quickly. It only takes one well-placed strike for Glenn to knock the knight off of his horse. Everyone, including the students who previously took issue with Glenn, cheers for his win. 

The second match is slower but no less impressive. It takes three rounds to secure the win, but Glenn is declared the victor once again, breaking off his lance into the knight’s armor with a final, efficient strike. 

The third match is more trying. Holst assumes that Glenn is growing fatigued by now; the brief interludes in between the matches are hardly enough for him to catch his breath. He nearly falters after the first round when he catches his opponent's lance on his shield, but the lance does not break and Glenn remains atop his horse. During the last round, he finds a second wind and surges forward with increased energy, successfully unhorsing the knight. 

Holst is enraptured in a way he's never been before. He’s observed plenty of tournaments, but the Alliance doesn’t partake in jousting, and the Alliance certainly doesn’t have Glenn. He’s so caught up in watching Glenn, he almost doesn’t hear Balthus say, “I hope they let him take a break.” 

They do not let him take a break. He is given long enough to drink some water and shake out his arm, but faces another opponent immediately thereafter. 

“He’s flagging,” Holst says under his breath. 

Balthus hears him. “What’s the point of making him continue? Hasn’t he proven himself?” 

Holst looks at the King. He sits under a tent, dressed in furs, watching with an approving smile. Beside him sits the young prince, who looks appropriately concerned. He leans over and whispers something to his father, who whispers back and pats him on the leg. 

“At least the prince has sense,” Holst mutters. 

When it goes wrong, as of course it does, only three people seem unsurprised: Holst, Balthus, and the young prince who stands up in alarm. 

Like the first match, Glenn’s final match ends quickly. During the first round, Glenn urges his horse forward, his lance held out a hair too low. The error, caused by fatigue, goes unnoticed by most, but Holst is looking for it. He sees that Glenn is struggling and subsequently notices that Glenn’s opponent sees it too. When they meet, Glenn misses him — barely, but barely is all it takes. The knight impales him with the lance, burying the wood in the seam between his breastplate and spaulders. Glenn remains on his horse but teeters dangerously, sagging forward. 

There’s blood. 

Holst doesn’t realize he attempts to run forward until Balthus grips him and holds on tightly, his fingers digging into his arm. “Easy,” he whispers. 

Holst forces himself to remain in place. 

It may not take more than a few moments in reality, but to Holst, the length of time between Glenn’s injury and the emergence of healers is excruciatingly long. He clenches his fists and watches as they finally reach Glenn and help him off of his horse, whose pristine fur is now splattered with red. 

He doesn’t listen to the announcements, doesn’t watch as new contenders gallop onto the field, and hardly pays any attention when Glenn is announced as the overall winner of the tournament as a whole. 

As soon as the tournament is over, he goes to the infirmary. 

* * *

When Holst sees Glenn sitting up in the infirmary bed, wrapped in bandages, as quiet as he’s been since this whole Founding Day business started, Holst doesn’t say anything. He simply sits beside him on the bed and thinks about how he still owes Glenn a nice gesture. 

He offers this: his hand, resting atop Glenn’s; his words, for once silenced; and his lips, gently seeking. 

He kisses Glenn, and Glenn tilts his head to kiss him back. 

When Holst pulls away, Glenn sighs as though it’s the first breath he has exhaled in weeks. 

They sit together until the healers chase Holst away. 

* * *

They don’t discuss the kiss. They don’t discuss Glenn’s pending departure. And though both loom over them, something loosens in their friendship trio after the events of Holy Kingdom of Faerghus Founding Day. Balthus becomes more openly friendly toward Glenn. Holst takes a break from constant studying and training to spend more time with Glenn. Glenn accepts both of them with less grumbling. 

And ever-changing with the tide, other Academy students embrace Glenn again, his demonstration at the jousting tournament having changed some otherwise solidified perspectives. 

For a while, life at the monastery feels almost peaceful. 

Then, the day of the ball, that fragile peace is shattered just as easily as it had been constructed. 

“What happened?” Glenn asks as soon as he Holst arrives at the ball. Glenn looks good in his formal wear, his long hair loose for the first time. Holst can barely look at him, so he reaches for a champagne flute and sips that instead. 

“Nothing,” he replies after a generous sip, trying to locate Balthus in the crowd. 

“Holst.” Glenn steps in front of him in an attempt to force Holst to look at him. 

Holst smiles at him as brightly as he can manage. “Tonight is for fun. We can worry about it later.” 

Glenn’s concern is easily replaced with frustration. “I hate when you do that.” 

“Do what?” Holst asks. 

Glenn steps out of his way. “Forget it. Go do whatever it is you’re going to do.” 

There is no bridge at the ball, nor are there any bandits to fight, so with preemptive regret weighing down his mind, Holst turns away from Glenn to make his way through champagne and conversation, trying to find an outlet for the horrible, mounting feeling in his chest. 

The path of mistakes lies before him: drink, talk, trouble. He makes his way through two flutes and four conversations before he finds someone promising. He’s in the middle of negotiating a barehanded brawl atop the Goddess Tower when Glenn interrupts him and pulls him aside. 

“Balthus told me,” he says, his grip unrelenting. 

The letter, having arrived for him that morning, explained that House Goneril was in need of its heir due to increased tensions at the border. As soon as the letter was in his hands, Holst was due back home for an undefined period of time. He should have left that morning, but he stayed for the ball. 

He stayed because Glenn is supposed to leave after the ball, too — only Glenn won’t be returning. 

“Holst,” Glenn says firmly. 

Holst looks at him, feeling miserable. “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

Not tonight. 

Glenn releases his arm to take his hand, grasping it tightly. “Come with me.” 

Holst allows himself to be led out into the quiet hall and off into a corner where they will go mostly unnoticed if anyone happens to enter and leave. Glenn releases his hand. 

Then he shoves Holst against the stone wall. 

“What —” Holst begins to ask. 

“It’s all over your face,” Glenn tells him as he drops to his knees. “That look you get when you have to do something stupid.” He grips Holst’s belt. “We are going to do that stupid something so you calm down.” 

The sight of Glenn on his knees — roughly forcing his belt open in a place where anyone can see them — is more than enough to subdue Holst. All his horrible feelings break down to give way to shock and a new kind of nervousness — the kind that comes paired with arousal. 

“This —” he attempts to respond, then swallows and tries again. “We’ll be seen.” 

Glenn looks up at him, incredibly serious. “Are you turning me down?” 

“I’m not saying that,” Holst replies, his words faltering under anticipation. “Are you sure? If we get caught —” 

“The only way we will get caught is if you waste time explaining the many ways this can go wrong.” Glenn grabs him through his pants, harder than should be enticing. “ _Shut up_.” 

Holst shuts up. 

It seems silly now that he is in this position, but whenever Holst allowed himself to fantasize about Glenn — his hand reaching under his blankets late at night, torn between want and guilt over wanting — he always imagined the setting as one of their bedrooms. He thought about kissing Glenn, touching him, gently guiding him into arousal, and pleasing him first before Glenn took him in his mouth or spread himself open. 

He realizes now that his imagination was sorely lacking — that Glenn is talented in tactics that have little to do with the battlefield. 

Glenn frees Holst’s cock from his pants and undergarments with minimal effort, tugging down the fabric only far enough to expose him. The brief brush of fingers along his groin already has Holst’s cock responding eagerly. It should be embarrassing, but Holst is too busy watching Glenn lick his lips to feel anything other than a coiling need that unwinds and spreads throughout his body. 

Glenn takes his cock in hand, looks up at Holst, and, _oh_ , smiles at him. Holst can only look back with lips parted, breath held fast, eyes wide — 

And then Glenn takes him in his mouth. 

It’s so warm and wet that Holst fully hardens almost immediately, the sensation of Glenn’s lips around the head of his cock so startlingly intense that he nearly thrusts himself all the way in — has to stop his hips in mid-roll so he can enjoy Glenn enveloping him slowly, fervently, in such a focused and steady manner that the easing of his lips and tongue becomes unbearable in a wholly wanted way. 

Holst tries to say _yeah_ or _that’s nice_ or something at least mildly reassuring, but what comes out is a string of half-broken syllables, his words devolved into nonsense. 

Glenn laughs around his cock. The abrupt constriction of his mouth and subsequent burst of air combines to send a fresh wave of pleasure throughout Holst’s body. Holst leans his head back against the stone but refuses to shut his eyes. 

Because he wants to see this: Glenn’s head bobbing back and forth, his mouth full, and his cheeks flush as he takes Holst entirely, pauses, then drags his lips all the way back up to his crown. 

“ _Ah —_ ” Holst breathes, words now entirely forgotten as Glenn’s tongue curls around the head of his cock, then dips lower, licking down his length. As he works his tongue back up along the underside of his cock, he glances upward, meeting Holst’s eyes and holding his stare while he once again takes all of Holst into his mouth. 

That moment alone nearly forces Holst over the edge — the brazen way Glenn embraces his stare and even _performs_ for him, sucking in his cheeks and tightening his lips to increase the sensation of his mouth. Holst moans far too loudly for being in a public place, and then Glenn drops his eyes to focus on his task once more. 

Glenn grabs his hips and begins to suck him in earnest, mouth moving back and forth enthusiastically, driving Holst so close to the brink that his hands, splayed against the stone, curl until his nails catch on the rough grooves. The wet sounds of Glenn's mouth sliding over his cock echo throughout the hall, but Holst is too far beyond caring to think about that. 

“ _Glenn,_ ” he gasps, reaching for him, his hand brushing the top of his head as a mindless way of increasing contact, of indulging in further touch. “Please —” he begs, craving more even knowing he’s about to be undone. 

Glenn hums around his cock and encircles the base with his fingers, hand now moving in rhythm with his mouth. That's all it takes to unravel Holst's fragile control — he groans and jerks forward, trying to stifle the cry that threatens to tear from his throat as his cock pulsates into Glenn’s mouth. Glenn swallows around him, and it’s too intense, too much, and yet utterly welcome, the contraction of his lips draining Holst completely while he shudders through the end of his orgasm. 

Glenn makes a small, alarmed sound and pulls away from Holst, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth as he swallows again. If Holst weren’t already spent, the sight of Glenn fighting to swallow down his cum — his hair clinging to his flush cheeks, his expression wavering between panicked and triumphant — would be enough for Holst to lose himself all over again. 

With shaking hands, Holst tucks himself away, redoing his belt and glancing around the hall to make sure no one observed them. Glenn pushes himself to his feet and Holst bends to help him, taking his arm and steadying him. 

Holst tries to pull him close — to kiss him, thank him, drop to his knees for him in turn — but Glenn places a hand on his chest and stops him. 

“Go home,” he says in a voice that seems to bend under the weight of what they just did, hoarse and weak. “I'll see you when you get back.” 

He frees himself of Holst’s grasp before Holst can attempt a protest, quickly combs his fingers through his hair, and leaves Holst to revel in his moment of tranquility, his mind quieted and calm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Distance


	4. sacrifice is a different animal altogether

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glenn reflects on distance. Holst proves more insightful than he seems. Together they manage to embrace a little freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a detailed sex scene.
> 
> I'm so sorry this chapter took me forever to post! It's longer than the others so it took extra time to finish. 
> 
> A huge thank you to @quintokki for illustrating [a scene from the sparring match from chapter two](https://twitter.com/quintokki/status/1272758185556934656)! It’s lovely, so please check it out!
> 
> Credit for the animal names featured in this chapter goes to Mino! Thank you so much for your help <3

Glenn is intimately familiar with distance in both the literal and figurative sense. 

As the child of the king's right hand, Glenn spent much of his youth parted from his father. On occasion, especially when he was young, Glenn was left in the care of the household staff — nannies and tutors who ensured he followed the curriculum that would put him on the path toward becoming a successful knight. When he grew older and began accompanying his father to the capital, Glenn was often left to mind Prince Dimitri’s instructors while his father spent long days and nights on courtly duty. The Fraldarius men, as a general rule, conducted most of their bonding across letters or with the occasional pat on the head in passing. 

As a child whose future was decided for him long before he was born, Glenn spent much of his teenage years separated from his peers. His path was one that required focus and dedication, and his milestones were meant to be passed early. It was difficult for him to relate to other children, even those of the nobility, and his social group often consisted of children who were younger than him — like Dimitri, whom he was sworn to protect, or Ingrid, whom he was sworn to marry. He thought that he and Sylvain could be friends, especially once Sylvain had been named heir to Gautier, but Sylvain never trusted him and preferred to spend time with Felix, leaving Glenn with the same amount of distance that always existed between himself and others. 

He therefore knows that with distance comes both the benefit and trouble of introspection — an opportunity for thought that may not otherwise be granted when inundated with someone's constant presence. Such as: _Does my father know I've been struggling with this combat art? Should I let my father know? Does it matter if he knows?_ Or: _Would things be different if I weren't a Fraldarius?_

Now, with Holst gone, he has time to reflect on what happened before they left — without Holst's presence to influence his perception of the events. He is able to think about how he allowed himself to be swayed by Holst's earnest disappointment into staying at Garreg Mach, and then swayed again by Holst's reaction to being forced to leave — a stark contrast to his own willingness to put the Academy behind him, which shoves an uncomfortable amount of perspective into the situation. 

More importantly, he is forced to recognize how he, Glenn Fraldarius, meant to kneel for no one, save for the king, dropped to his knees to make one man feel a little bit better. 

He faces the fact that he had liked it — doing something for someone else. Or rather, doing something for himself, on instinct, not because he should, but because it was what he wanted. 

That is the real crux of the issue, and has been from the beginning. Now he has no choice but to acknowledge it: he feels something for Holst — an emotion that clouds both his judgment and purpose at the Academy, that influences him into forgoing carefully laid plans and appearances, and that is currently keeping him at the Academy, when he should be leaving these distractions behind for good. 

The problem with distance is that it has a tendency to amplify feelings of turmoil, to warp something nice into regret, and to rebuild internal conflict into an insurmountable structure. Therefore, when Holst's letter arrives one week after his departure, Glenn simply doesn't open it. 

"Aren't you curious?" Balthus asks when he sees it on his desk after inexplicably inviting himself into Glenn's room one evening. 

"Don't you have other friends?" Glenn asks, folding his arms and glaring as Balthus takes a seat in the only chair — the same chair Glenn was using before Balthus interrupted him. 

"'Course I do," Balthus replies as he shuffles through the rest of the papers on his desk. "Hey, you got any notes on battle tactics? I missed a seminar today." Glenn slams his hand down on the pile of papers, preventing Balthus from messing them up more than he already has. "Go bother someone else." 

Balthus grins at him, then sits back in the chair and folds his hands behind his head. "No can do, sorry. You're the only one I'm pestering tonight." 

"You don't even like me," Glenn points out, even though he and Balthus both know that's no longer true. They've moved from an uneasy tolerance into something closer to friendship — unfortunately. 

"Yeah, but I like Holst," Balthus replies. "And he'd show me the sharp end of his axe if I let you go back to being broody and alone again." 

"I didn't realize you were more scared of his axe than my sword." 

Balthus laughs. "You're only saying that because you've never seen Holst angry." 

It's a factual statement, and it makes Glenn pause. He's never seen Holst even approach anger. He's been cheerful, happy, self-destructive, anxious — but never enraged. Certainly, he's capable of it just like anyone, but right now, this acknowledgement of yet another facet of Holst that Glenn does not know feels like a twist of a knife. What has he done, and what will he do, for a man who he does not even really _know_? 

"What's with the face?" Balthus asks, dropping his arms. 

Glenn twists his expression into displeasure. "I'm thinking about how annoying you are." 

Balthus sighs loudly. "Why are you always so difficult? I'm trying to do a nice thing here." 

"I didn't ask you to." 

Balthus looks increasingly annoyed, which is the desired outcome of this back-and-forth, but instead of allowing it to overpower him as he often does, he picks up the unopened letter from Holst. "Do you want me to read it for you?" 

"No." 

"Because, you know, he hasn't even written me. He probably mentioned in here that you should tell me something on his behalf. Something like, 'Tell Balthus he's still the king of grappling!' or 'Give Balthus your battle tactic notes!' or my personal favorite, 'Let Balthus know I'm still alive.'" 

Glenn is ready with a retort but falters at that last suggestion. He reaches for the letter, plucks it out of Balthus' hand, and looks down at it. "You're worried?" 

"Nah," Balthus replies, though it sounds unconvincing. "He'll be fine. He always is. I'm just annoying you, like always." 

Despite his words, the tone of the conversation has shifted enough that Glenn feels chastised, and rightfully so. Which is why, when Balthus stands to leave as Glenn wanted him to, he says, "Sit back down," and opens the letter. 

Balthus sits down. Glenn leans against the desk and reads. 

> _Glenn,_  
> 
> 
> _I'm not sure if you're still at the Academy. If you aren't, I understand._
> 
> _If you are, do something fun in my honor, since I'm not there to talk you into it myself._
> 
> _Your friend,_
> 
> _Holst_
> 
> _P.S. Tell Balthus I said not to bother you too much._
> 
> _P.P.S. Thank you. For the night of the ball._

For such a short letter, it manages to elicit a wide range of emotions from Glenn: annoyance, that Holst would think he'd go back on his implied decision to stay at the Academy, and fond irritation at his ridiculous request. Then a wave of uncertainty at the mention of the night of the ball, followed by a light flip-flopping feeling in his stomach and the subsequent budding of regret. And finally, exasperation — who thanks someone for a blowjob? 

Glenn refolds the letter. 

"Well?" Balthus asks. 

"He said to tell you he's alive," Glenn reports, adding the letter to his pile of papers. 

"Told you!" Balthus smiles. "He'd never forget me." 

Glenn rolls his eyes. "Do you want to spar?" 

That perks Balthus right up. He stands, nearly knocking over the chair in the process. "Yeah I do! Right now?" 

"Come on." 

Glenn grabs his sword while Balthus prattles on about how much he's been training and how he'll _definitely_ beat Glenn this time. 

* * *

Holst returns to the monastery early one morning, right before classes begin for the day, and his arrival has the Golden Deer clustered outside of their classroom, surrounding him to listen to his tales of battle. Holst plays up his story for the crowd, loudly describing how he earned a new scar, one that runs from under his eye diagonally across his cheek, still red and puffy as it heals. Glenn passes them by and only spares a glance at Holst — one that should not, after nearly three weeks of distance, cause a stuttering feeling of relief in his chest, but still manages to do so. 

He ignores the feeling and Holst both, staring forward and walking toward his class. 

"Glenn — hey, wait!" Holst mumbles polite apologies as he disengages himself from his classmates so he can jog after Glenn. 

He reaches Glenn just before he enters the Blue Lions classroom and loosely grabs his arm. "Hang on." 

Glenn turns with annoyance, attempting to force himself into disinterest, but failing to keep his attention from flitting to that new scar. "What?" He shakes his arm free of Holst's grip. 

Holst's expression morphs quickly — a quick flash of hurt, followed by that stupid smile he always wears, the one Glenn can't stand. "Can't a guy say hi to his friend?" he asks. It isn't the real question he wants to ask, but like with his smile, Holst covers everything up with a facade. 

And Glenn is no different. He tells himself it won't affect his resolve — the way Holst retreats into old habits, the way they take steps back from the night of the ball into a more formal, less comfortable unfamiliarity — but internally he wavers. He loses footing specifically because there is only one gesture he wishes to give Holst upon this reunion — and it's one that he cannot offer. Not in here, in public, and now that he's had time to consider their dwindling time frame and the potential cost of mistakes, not ever. 

"Balthus is in your classroom, not mine," Glenn responds in a tone as empty as he can manage. 

Holst doesn't even react to that. He just _smiles_ and _smiles_ , and it's so frustrating that Glenn turns away to walk into the classroom. 

"I had one more letter for you," Holst says to his back. Glenn doesn't turn around but he hears him pat his pocket. "Got it right here. Never had the chance to send it." 

Holst had written him three letters total, one for each week that he was gone. Glenn had responded to none of them. 

"But maybe I should hang on to it until you're in a better mood..." 

"Keep it," Glenn says without looking back. He walks to his desk and takes a seat. 

When he finally brings himself to look back at the door, Holst is gone. 

* * *

The problem that Glenn faces is Holst's unrelenting way of approaching friendship. This is how he managed to whittle Glenn's resistance down before, and how he nearly manages to do so now — by sitting with Glenn at lunch and following him to the training grounds no matter how much Glenn rebukes him. And worse, he's so contentious of Glenn that he manages to make him _feel bad_ for being so cold. 

"Are you gonna tell us how it went out there or what?" Balthus asks a couple of days after Holst's return. 

"Nah, Glenn doesn't want to hear it," Holst says, dismissing the topic with a wave of his hand. "Let's talk about something else." 

It continues like this until Balthus corners Glenn after dinner one day, stepping in front of him before he can leave, while Holst hurries on ahead to study in the library. 

"What's wrong with you?" Balthus asks, folding his arms and standing as though he's unmovable. 

"Nothing," Glenn answers, attempting to side-step him. 

Balthus steps in front of him again, blocking his path. "You're being an asshole. More of one than usual." 

"Get out of my way." 

Balthus stands stubbornly without responding for several moments, during which Glenn glares at him, also without backing down. Eventually, though, Balthus caves and moves to the side, allowing Glenn passage. 

"You better figure yourself out," Balthus calls to his back, “before it’s too late.” 

* * *

The real problem isn't Holst. 

The real problem is the end of the Guardian Moon, poised to snuff out yet another month, and add another year to a count that Glenn keeps within his mind even though he doesn't want to. The Guardian Moon is always the worst, and he should have left as planned before it came to this — before it waned into nothing, once again marring his internal calendar. 

On the day itself — when it finally comes and Glenn skips both class and training to sit in his room and fail to forget — he stews until the hour grows late. He loses sight of his plans and resolve, of everything to which he clings, and simply feels _alone_ in such a deeply unsettling way. It wears him down and compromises his judgment. 

Before he can talk himself out of it, he leaves the confines of his own room to stand in front of Holst's door and knock, slowly, three regretful times. 

Holst answers, awake but tired, dressed in his nightclothes, hair more mussed than usual. He had obviously been in bed, even if he had not yet fallen asleep. Glenn himself looks no better — still dressed in a rumpled uniform, hair undone and likely tangled, dark circles under his eyes betraying his lack of sleep. 

"What's wrong?" Holst asks, genuine concern on his face, an expression that Glenn is happy to see, because it isn't a smile, and he doesn't think he could handle false humor right now. 

Glenn shoves his way into the room. Holst steps back, surprised, but closes the door, accepting Glenn's presence easily, just as he always does. 

Glenn sits on his bed. Holst hesitates, then sits next to him. 

Whereas Glenn could remain quiet for all eternity, merely sitting in Holst's company, accepting silence for what it is, Holst does not have that ability. As the minutes stretch on, he grows less comfortable, and finally offers an admission. 

"I know what day it is." 

Glenn had not expected that. Those words make his chest tighten uncomfortably, his stomach drop, the acknowledgement not something he's accustomed to hearing. "How?" 

"You were being so —" Holst begins, then thinks better of his wording and scraps the sentence entirely. "I was worried, so I looked it up." 

On this day, years ago, Glenn's mother succumbed to a plague that ravaged the kingdom, and since then Glenn has done his best to be the person she wanted him to be — the brother who watches out for Felix, the son who respects his father's wishes, the knight who watches out for his prince, and the man who will achieve great heights. And if he loses sight of that in the name of a fling, of a blowjob given in a hall, of a lopsided but _genuine_ smile — then he will have failed her. 

But what he wants right now is to forget all of it, just as he had forgotten his duty the night of the ball, and so he leans in to kiss Holst, to prevent any more confessions, to erase this conversation with action. 

Holst does not let him. He places his hand on Glenn's chest, stopping him, keeping him at a distance. "Glenn," he says with effort. 

"What?" Glenn asks, now angry, which is a better emotion than the others he feels. "You don't want to?" 

"I want to," Holst tells him, appearing pained as he admits it. "I've wanted to every moment since I've been back." 

And Glenn rejected his companionship, over and over again. 

"But you're not — this isn't the right reason." 

Glenn puts his hands in his lap, then curls them into fists, wondering why it's acceptable for Holst to take a blowjob when he's feeling like shit, but when Glenn needs a distraction — 

Holst's hand — large, calloused, and warm like Holst always is — covers one of his fists. "Glenn." 

Glenn doesn't want to look at him, at that scar on his face, at his pity or understanding. He stares defiantly at his lap, where Holst's hand holds his. "Forget it," he mutters. 

Then it's not just Holst's hand holding him, but his arms, too, that pull him close and wrap around him firmly. Glenn's head ends up pressed against Holst's chest, feeling it rise and fall, hearing his steady heartbeat, while Holst holds him as though he's protecting him from the world and the cost that comes with existing within it. Glenn does not struggle. He relaxes, for the first time in days, the tension driven from his shoulders, as though this is what his body truly needed — not distance, but closeness, presence, something stable to keep him grounded. 

Holst manages to stay quiet. Glenn stays in his arms. 

Inevitably, their positioning grows uncomfortable, so they shift to lying beside each other on the bed, Glenn facing the desk, Holst with his arm draped over him, maintaining contact without being stifling. 

"You can talk," Glenn tells him after a while. 

So Holst does — he talks about trivial matters, like what happened in class that day, how the dining hall food tasted off, and how he tutored a classmate. 

Glenn falls asleep to his words, the drone finally clearing his mind of all other, heavier thoughts. 

When he awakens, he's pressed against Holst, curled into his warmth, and it takes mental effort to detangle himself to return to his own room. He manages without waking Holst, and when he shuts the door behind him, it's almost like the night never happened. 

Except come breakfast that morning, with Holst yawning across from him, and Balthus heartily eating beside him, Glenn asks, "How long are you going to wait before you tell us what happened with your skirmish?" 

Holst grins at him, bright and earnest, happier than he's seemed since he returned. "All you had to do was ask." 

"Hey," Balthus says around a mouth full of food. "I asked days ago!" 

Holst tells the story of his time away from the Academy, of battle and danger, and ends it with, "I was careful, though. Didn't take any big risks this time, despite how it looks." He taps his new scar. 

"Really?" Glenn asks, disbelieving. 

"Really," Holst replies. "I've decided to reel it in a little from now on. I've got more important things to worry about, anyway." 

"Like what?" Balthus asks. 

"Like living long enough to deliver unsent letters." Holst reaches into his uniform pocket, pulls out the now-crinkled letter, and slides it across to Glenn. 

Balthus huffs. "Why does Glenn get all the letters? He doesn't even write you back!" 

"You complain about reading all the time," Holst points out. "Writing, too." 

"Yeah, reading and writing for _class_!" 

"I was saving you effort," Holst says. "You should thank me." 

"I'll remember this," Balthus grumbles, though there's no real energy behind the threat. 

While they banter, Glenn opens the letter. It contains a short update about his planned return and a few sparse details about the skirmish. Before the closing, it states, _I have a surprise for you next month. Keep the first weekend clear._

"That's in a few days," Glenn says out loud. 

"Yup," Holst replies with his fork poised in the air, aimed to chuck some food at Balthus, who looks ready to toss his entire plate across the table. "So be ready." 

Glenn refolds the letter, scoots out of the way, and watches as Holst and Balthus make idiots of themselves. 

* * *

When the weekend arrives, Glenn dresses in warm layers and meets Holst at the stables. Both of them carry satchels filled with supplies for their journey. 

"Ready?" Holst asks with a grin. 

"Are you sure we have permission for this?" Glenn counters doubtfully. A two-day trip, missed seminars, abandoned studies — without the backing of necessity, it seems unlikely that anyone from the Academy would endorse this venture. 

"Of course," Holst replies. "This trip isn't without an academic basis." 

"Right," Glenn replies dryly, moving to get his horse. 

"Hang on," Holst calls. "No horses for this trip. We need to travel quickly." 

He walks over to the wyvern side of the stables and motions Glenn over. Glenn follows with even more skepticism. 

"Meet Maggie," Holst says as he walks over to a dark brown wyvern, who begins growling upon seeing him. "That's her happy growl." Holst reaches over the stall door to pat her head. When he pauses to look at Glenn, she cranes her neck over the door to nudge his arm. 

Glenn stands a respectful distance away. "Your wyvern is named Maggie?" 

"What's wrong with that?" Holst begins nuzzling the wyvern's face. It slobbers all over him. 

Glenn tries not to look disgusted. "That name doesn't seem suitable for a wyvern." 

Holst laughs. "Aw, but look at her. You're going to tell me she doesn't look like a Maggie to you?" He puts his hands on either side of Maggie's face and smooshes it. All Glenn sees are sharp teeth. 

"Definitely not," he replies. 

"What's your horse’s name?" Holst asks as he opens the stall door and begins leading the wyvern out. Now Glenn can see that it has a gaudy leather collar, dyed as pink as Holst’s hair, with the name **MAGGIE** embroidered across it. It looks ridiculous. 

"Horse." 

Holst stops. The wyvern stops. Both of them look at Glenn. 

"What?" Glenn asks. 

"That won't do," Holst replies, furrowing his brow. "You can't call your horse 'horse.'" 

"I can and I do." 

With a sigh, Holst saddles Maggie and makes sure she's well equipped for travel. He fastens their satchels to her back, then hands her reins to Glenn. "Here." 

"I don't want to lead her." 

"Just hold them for a second. I have to take a look at something." 

Glenn takes the reins. Maggie attempts to step closer in an effort to sniff him. He steps back, keeping his wary attention on her. 

Holst returns a couple of minutes later, announcing, "Alright! I got it." 

"Got what?" Glenn hands off the reins. 

"Sweet Pea." Holst begins leading Maggie out of the stables. Glenn walks beside him. 

Glenn waits for clarification. Holst offers none. 

"What is that supposed to mean?" 

"That's your horse's new name. You can't keep calling her 'horse,' that's just cruel." 

"And your answer to that is to name her after a delicate flower?" Glenn asks, incredulous. "She's a warhorse, not a pony." 

"Even warhorses deserve to feel loved," Holst replies. "Besides, she's white like some sweet pea flowers." 

"I am not calling her Sweet Pea," Glenn firmly states. 

Now outside the stables, Holst double checks the saddle straps. "It'll grow on you." 

Annoyed, Glenn transitions the conversation. "Why do you even have a wyvern? You don't ride them in battle." He takes down his hair and reties it, this time in a tight bun so it doesn't tangle in the wind. 

"That's right," Holst says more to Maggie than to Glenn, giving her neck a scratch. "Maggie here is a pet. Isn't that right?" 

Glenn rolls his eyes. "Of course. I should have guessed. Who wouldn't want a wyvern as a pet?" 

Holst chuckles. "They aren't the best at playing fetch, but they're fun. But you're right, it's a little more than that." He climbs into the saddle, then reaches out a hand to help Glenn. "I face a lot of them in battle up by the border, so it's important for me to understand them." 

Though not exactly keen on riding wyvernback, Glenn grabs Holst's hand and hoists himself up into the saddle behind him. 

"My parents gave me Maggie for my tenth birthday so I could learn all about wyverns. Now I'm an expert." 

"Great," Glenn replies with little confidence. 

"You ready?" Holst asks. 

"Do I have a choice?" 

"Just hold on to me and move with Maggie instead of against her. Lean if you feel her lean. You'll get used to it in no time." 

"Fine. Let's go." Glenn grasps Holst's cloak, preparing himself for takeoff. 

Holst whistles. Maggie runs forward, flapping her wings — and then they're in the air. 

The ascent is rougher than Glenn expects. His stomach churns as Maggie quickly rises high into the sky, and he ends up transitioning from holding Holst's cloak to wrapping his arms around him. Holst maintains his hold on the reins, but as soon as they reach a cruising height, he rests one of his hands over Glenn's arm. "You alright back there?" he asks. 

"Fine," Glenn mutters, holding on tightly. He spares a glance below and immediately regrets it, instead choosing to rest his forehead against Holst's shoulder. 

Despite the height and uneasy feeling that accompanies it, Glenn soon relaxes a little, loosening his hold. Riding behind Holst isn't terrible; he blocks most of the wind, and Maggie is fairly steady once she's actually in the air. Eventually, flying begins to feel more natural, Glenn managing to move with Maggie as Holst instructed, which helps immensely. Holst's light conversational topics keep Glenn's attention from thinking too hard about their height as well, even if he has to yell to be heard over the wind. 

Their journey takes a few hours, but they stop to eat in between, for which Glenn is thankful. He may be accustomed to riding long hours on a horse, but wyverns are a different experience entirely. 

When they finally near their destination, Holst points ahead. "There it is!" 

Glenn has spent the majority of their trip avoiding looking down, but he now raises his head from Holst's shoulder to take in the view. In the distance is a city with a wide variety of buildings and a coastline that buffers it with shimmering water. "Where are we?" he asks. As they fly closer, he notes that the city is bustling despite the winter season; people walk to and from shops without the Faerghus-typical solemnity that comes with braving harsh winters to carry on a day's errands. 

"Derdriu," Holst replies, clicking his tongue and guiding Maggie into a slow descent toward an inn. "Welcome to the Alliance, Glenn." 

Glenn hardly minds the landing, busy as he is taking in the sights and sounds of the city as they come to a stop. The city is so unlike Fhirdiad that it's almost difficult to believe they exist within the same country. It's lively in a way that seems befitting for a place that is ruled by squabbling nobles — loud and lacking in respect, by the sounds of some conversations that happen around them — and it's also surprisingly temperate for it being the harshest month of winter. 

Holst hands Maggie off to a stablehand, then walks inside with their bags to arrange their stay for the night. Glenn, meanwhile, walks the perimeter of the inn, noting how the city itself seems to be built upon the water. Fraldarius is a coastal territory, but Faerghus is often at odds with the sea, which is harsh and cold during their difficult winters. Here, the sea seems part of the culture — they work with it, instead of against it. 

"There you are," Holst says as he walks up to Glenn. "I thought you ran off." 

"Why did you bring me here?" Glenn asks, turning to look at Holst. 

Sheepishly — maybe even a little self-consciously — Holst shrugs. "When I asked you what you'd do if you weren't a knight, you said travel. So — travel." He brandishes his arm toward the city at large. "I know it isn't much. You probably meant travel out of the country, and the Alliance doesn't have a whole lot to offer, but I thought why not. A weekend break from being a knight. If you don't like it, we can head back after we eat, or —" 

"Holst." Glenn's voice is firm. 

"Yeah?" Holst asks, rubbing the back of his neck. 

"Shut up." 

He needs a minute to process this. He turns away from Holst to survey the city again, the people, the shops, even the little inn. Stealing away for a weekend like this is unbecoming behavior of a knight, especially one in direct service of the prince, and yet there is also a thrill in it. It provides a division of himself from his duty that Glenn has never been afforded before. 

It concerns him, because he might like the separation a little too much, but it excites him for the same reason. It's liberating to think that he can let down his guard and walk these roads without anyone knowing who he is, can pretend to be a mere man doing some shopping, a traveler looking for a place to sleep. 

It's a gift. 

Glenn is accustomed to gifts that serve functional purposes, like a sword that must be honed or, as in Holst’s case, a wyvern that must be studied. Gifts that are given merely for fun are so rare, Glenn cannot even think of the last time someone handed him something that was meant for pure enjoyment. He feels unsteady — emotional, even — as he begins to assess what this means to him now, and will mean to him when he does return to his life as a knight, with this weekend a memory in his mind. 

"Glenn?" Holst asks in an uncertain tone, lightly touching the back of his arm. Glenn doesn't have to turn around to guess at the expression that is on Holst's face — the slow slide toward anxiety as he makes him wait for an answer. 

Glenn reaches behind his head and pulls his hair tie free, deciding to let his hair down. Then he turns around to face Holst not as a Fraldarius, but as someone who has nothing weighing him down — no prince to serve, no fiancée to marry. 

"This is perfect," he says, because like this, they can be honest. He can allow himself those words, and the feeling that accompanies them. 

Holst's face lights up, breaking out into genuine joy upon hearing that. "Really?" he asks, breathless. 

Glenn takes his hand. "Show me around." 

They remain hand-in-hand as they walk around the city, visiting shops, sampling foods, trying different teas. Glenn may not be well-known here, but Holst is recognized from time-to-time, people approaching him to inquire about his family or his schooling. The first time it happens, Glenn quickly tries to let go of his hand, but Holst only holds it tighter, refusing to let him go. That gesture affects Glenn even more than the gift of travel. Holst, for all his obsession with his appearances and being perfect, risking his very image to keep holding his hand — Glenn has never felt as fond of him as he does thereafter. 

"You're a fool," he mumbles with pleased annoyance. 

"Your fool," Holst replies, giving his hand a squeeze and making Glenn's chest tighten with emotion yet again. 

They pick out souvenirs for their siblings. Holst chooses some materials for Hilda's crafting ventures. Glenn nearly picks out a dagger for Felix, but thinks better of it, deciding instead to choose a gift that is meant to be fun, not serve a purpose. He settles on a small stuffed cat, black with bright amber eyes. 

"He's too old for this," Glenn explains to Holst as he pays and places the toy into his cloak pocket, "But he'll love it." Because Felix, like the cat, is still soft inside — not yet hardened by expectations. 

When the sun begins to set, Holst leads them to the harbor, where people are busy loading boats. They walk across docks until they reach a space that provides him a full view of the sea and the sunset colors that have overtaken the blue. It's a breathtaking sight, and for a while, they watch in silence — one with which even Holst seems comfortable. 

As the colors begin to fade, Holst points across the ocean. "Right across there," he says, "Is Fraldarius." 

Across the ocean, unable to reach Glenn where he currently stands, is his home and his name. 

But he is here, far away from all of that, with Holst taking him into his arms, and Glenn stepping closer, both of them watching the sky give way to night. 

* * *

When they return to the inn, Glenn is surprised by Holst leading him to his own room, then pausing at the door instead of accompanying him inside. 

"We could have stayed together," Glenn points out, frustrated. 

"I know," Holst replies quietly. "But that's not what this weekend is for." 

"I thought this was my weekend," Glenn argues. "Or is it only my weekend under your terms?" 

"It is —" 

"Or is it only acceptable for me to blow you if you're upset? Do I have to send you into a spiral to get you to f —" 

He bites his tongue before he finishes because Holst flinches upon hearing the implication. 

"Forget it," Glenn decides for them both, placing his hand on the doorknob. 

"Wait," Holst murmurs, placing his hand on top of Glenn's. "Glenn. Look at me." 

Glenn looks at him, but only so that he can regard Holst unhappily. 

"You deserve to be cherished," Holst tells him, expression serious. 

"So cherish me,” Glenn replies, nodding toward the door. 

Holst touches his cheek, brushing his hair back. "I want to do this right." 

"We don't have the luxury of time, if you've forgotten." Graduation is the following month, and then this playacting will come to an end. Glenn will go back home to serve his prince while Holst will go back to run his territory and protect the border. 

"I haven't," Holst assures him, now cupping Glenn's cheek. "But that doesn't mean we have to rush either." 

"If you're worried about my dignity —" 

"It's not that," Holst interrupts. "It's — I care about you. A lot." 

Glenn exhales forcefully. "So?" 

"So. This." 

Holst kisses him slowly, a brushing of lips that builds into full contact, and then deepens, his lips parting and his tongue gently finding Glenn's. Glenn kisses back with more passion, more fire, clutching at Holst's cloak and pulling him closer. Holst allows this increase in fervor, matching it, then pulling back simply to kiss him again with more intensity, less control. He eases Glenn back against the door, one of his hands splaying against the wood, the other moving to Glenn's hip. Holst's body encroaches on him, his leg finding its way between Glenn's, pressing against him unintentionally, but with enough friction that Glenn whimpers into the kiss. 

Glenn attempts to increase that friction, tugs at Holst’s cloak when he attempts to break the kiss, reigniting their ardor. He wraps his arms around Holst’s neck and kisses him as though it could be the last time they do this. Holst responds with tongue and body both, until Glenn feels enveloped by the kiss, by his arms, by the way Holst has him trapped against the door. 

And then Holst steps back, flush, breathing quickly, looking like a man whose resolve has been thoroughly tested. Glenn feels triumphant, even though he knows he must look similar, his own chest rising and falling rapidly, his body yearning for more. 

"Here," Holst says weakly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small wrapped parcel — something that Glenn did not see him purchase earlier that day. He places it in Glenn's hand. "Open it tonight." 

And then Holst regards him in a way that snuffs out Glenn's newly revived annoyance — that same look he gets when he's facing defeat. 

Glenn bites back a snippy remark and attempts to temporarily push the kiss from his mind. "Holst." 

"Goodnight," Holst says with one of his fake smiles, leaving Glenn in a hall, a mess of conflicting emotion, the parcel in his hands. 

Glenn goes into his room, lights a candle, and sits on his bed. Then he unwraps the parcel, slowly revealing the gift inside. 

He holds it up to the candlelight: a long hairpin shaped like a sword, with an elaborate lion etched into the hilt and a single blue sapphire adorning the pommel. Glenn turns it over in his hand, looking for something he knows will be there — and then he finds it, so subtle, it could be easily missed. 

The lion's eyes are shaped like the Crest of Goneril. 

It's a courting gift. 

"How pointless," Glenn whispers as he watches the sapphire shine in the candlelight. 

Obviously, he can’t accept this gift. For one, he is already engaged, an agreement that cannot be broken, no matter how much he might wish it. There's the fact that they are both from two different sides of the country, under different rule, both heirs who are required to produce heirs of their own. And even if, somehow, those issues could be circumvented, their responsibilities would always keep them apart. 

It is a meaningless gift, rooted in formality, and it goes against the meaning of this weekend. Holst is behaving like a true noble, treating Glenn like he must be wooed according to standards that should not define their brief reprieve from responsibility. 

Glenn sets the hairpin down on the bedside table without trying it on — not rejected, necessarily, but not accepted either. 

It occurs to him, as he falls back onto the bed to stare at the shadows on the ceiling, that Holst hasn't been able to let his responsibilities fall to the wayside for the weekend. Unlike Glenn, Holst is well-known in the Alliance; he still has an image to maintain, guidelines to follow, his status as an heir defining his every move. He's still wrapped up in what's _right_ instead of embracing what he wants, and that's why he's adhering to courting customs instead of simply taking what he wants. 

Holst has helped him immensely with this gift, has given him a taste of true freedom, one he never would have otherwise had. Glenn wants to do the same for him, to liberate him from the shackles of his name, if only for a night. 

He stands and unclasps his cloak, kicks off his boots, and dresses down until he's only in his undershirt, the fabric barely reaching his thighs. Then he leaves his room to stand in front of Holst's, knocking on the door. 

Holst opens the door, revealing that he, too, has dressed down for the evening, wearing only his undershirt and breeches, looking predictably miserable. It's the same face he wears when consumed by thoughts of failure — when trapped in the prison of unobtainable perfection. 

He looks at Glenn with surprise, which morphs into concern, given Glenn's state of dress, but Glenn doesn't give him time to speak. 

"This," Glenn says, sweeping his arm across the hall, indicating their trip as a whole, "means nothing to me if you're still unhappy." 

"I'm not unhappy," Holst counters, swallowing as Glenn steps closer. 

"When we close this door," Glenn tells him, "it will just be us here, together, with no else to see or judge. Nothing outside will matter. So for tonight, be yourself. Take what you want, without following the rules, without smiling your stupid fake smile." 

Glenn steps forward again, crossing the threshold, now close enough to hear Holst inhale and exhale as he weighs Glenn's request. He does not smile. "For tonight,” he repeats. Then, losing his hesitancy, he adds a simple, “Okay.” 

They shut the door together. 

Then Holst is on him, pressing him back against the closed door as he had earlier, only this time his passion is unbridled. He kisses his neck, his shoulder, the hint of chest that escapes the collar of his undershirt. His hands, calloused by axe handles and honed by battle, now roam freely, grabbing Glenn by the hip, slipping under his shirt, touching him as though he is a man starved for physical contact. 

And isn't he? Aren't they both? 

It's obvious in the way that Glenn's body responds, flaring to life with a brighter burn than the candle that flickers within the room, simply because Holst sneaks in a hint of teeth, the pressure of a bite, as his lips trail their way back up to his neck, his jaw, his cheek. Then Holst kisses him in full, unrestrained, even a little sloppy in how eagerly his tongue seeks Glenn's — but it's exactly what Glenn wants, this unscripted passion, their bodies no longer tools for their country, instead offered to each other. He weaves his fingers into Holst's hair while they kiss, clutching a handful, encouraging more. 

Holst pulls back and drops to his knees, as Glenn once did for him, brushing his lips along his inner thighs, then nipping his way upward, to where Glenn's hardening cock threatens to free itself of the flimsy undershirt. Holst nuzzles the base, and when he speaks, his breath skirts around it, warm and promising. "I have wanted to do this for you since the ball," he murmurs, reverent, like Glenn is someone to be worshiped. 

Glenn can only inhale in response, nearly a gasp, because as soon as the words leave Holst's mouth, his lips are set against his cock, his tongue lapping its way upward, as uncoordinated as the kiss had been, but fervent in the way it curls and slides along his length, until Holst takes him entirely into his mouth. 

Glenn moans, his hand finding Holst's hair again, grabbing a handful once more as the wet heat of Holst’s mouth envelops him, takes him so deeply that Glenn feels himself sliding along the back of his throat. This would be more than enough to keep Glenn moaning and whimpering above him, on the verge of begging, but Holst doesn't follow Glenn's script from the night of the ball. His fingers glance across Holst's balls, then slide downward, along his most sensitive strip of skin, until they find and circle Glenn's rim, making Glenn gasp unbidden, his body tensing with anticipation. 

Holst's head bobs back and forth, sucking hard, as his finger presses inward — just a little, but enough to make Glenn's legs shake, to tighten his hold on Holst’s hair as he attempts to remain upright. 

Right before he loses control over himself. Holst releases him. He stands to tug at Glenn's undershirt, pulling it off of him and tossing it to the side. Together, they then work on Holst, unlacing his breeches, yanking at his shirt, until he, too, is freed of the nuisance of clothing. 

Though eager to continue what they've started, Glenn pauses to admire the tight muscles of Holst's torso and the patchwork of scarring that expands across them — each scar the story of a battle, of risks taken, of close calls. Holst's chest rises and falls as Glenn looks and then touches, his fingers roaming over the marred flesh. 

"Go on," Holst murmurs. "Tell me I'm an idiot." 

Glenn continues to trail his fingers across the scars until he reaches Holst's nipple. He flicks the pad of his thumb over it and watches as Holst's breath catches. "My idiot," he reminds him, flicking his nipple again and again, until Holst moans weakly. 

Without warning, Holst grabs him and hoists him up, lifting him with as much ease as he had once months ago, and carries him to the bed, where he sets him down upon his back. Glenn, torn between exasperation and desire, can only manage a hint of a glare — especially because Holst kisses him before he can complain. 

"Hang on," Holst says, ending the kiss. He crosses the room to rummage in his satchel until he finds a vial of oil, which he uncorks as he brings it back to the bed. 

Glenn raises his eyebrows in surprise, then smirks. "You sneak. Playing reluctant when you were ready all this time." 

Holst blushes, bright red, and the sight of the large, fearsome Goneril heir reduced to an embarrassed mess as he positions himself between Glenn’s legs is far too enticing. "It's for weapons," Holst attempts to defend himself with absolutely no strength in the statement. 

"One weapon, maybe," Glenn replies teasingly. He pulls his legs back, giving Holst the access he needs. 

Though still visibly embarrassed, Holst manages to ask, “Are you ready?” 

Glenn raises himself up on his elbows to look at Holst's cock in mock-assessment. It's large and eager, already fully firm, glistening at the tip in anticipation, and Glenn wants to lick it as he had that night at the ball. But he holds back, and instead says dryly, with a completely straight face, "I've never seen a weapon I couldn't handle." 

Holst laughs, the sound airy and earnest, and Glenn finds himself smiling, as he lies back again. 

Holst wastes no more time in coating his fingers with the oil and positioning one hand between Glenn's legs, stroking him lightly with the other. Then he pushes a finger inside, slowly, carefully, while Glenn's breath hitches as he adjusts to the sensation. Once it's fully inside, Holst moves his finger back and forth, and then curls it in a way that transitions Glenn from tense to grinding, a whine escaping from his throat. Holst slides another finger inside, and works on loosening him. 

It doesn't take long for Glenn's impatience to catch up to him, his yearning building until it nearly becomes unmanageable. He touches Holst's hand to stop his stroking, lest he accidentally end this prematurely, and breathes out a clipped, "Okay," so they can do what they both want. 

Holst lies beside Glenn, murmuring, "Come here," and guiding him into lying on top of him so they can kiss again, just once, as Glenn straddles Holst. When they break the kiss and Glenn sits up, they maintain eye contact, drinking in the sight of each other — Holst flush, lips parted, blatantly aching to feel Glenn in a way he's never felt him before, and Glenn himself likely equally flush, hair mussed out of its usual kempt appearance, expression openly craving. 

Glenn raises himself, positioning himself over Holst's cock. Holst takes a sharp breath and then Glenn lowers himself onto it, slowly, carefully, feeling a burn spread throughout his core as his body accommodates him. Holst places his hands on his thighs and squeezes, lightly at first, but then harder as Glenn takes him deeper, his fingers promising to bruise. It helps — gives Glenn something to focus on while his body adjusts enough to turn toward pleasure. 

Once he has taken all of Holst, they both pause to simply breathe, in and out, quick little breaths — Holst adjusting to the tight heat of his body, and Glenn adjusting to the feeling of being stretched and filled. 

Then Glenn moves, slowly at first, an easy up and down roll of his hips. He tilts forward, hands anchoring themselves on Holst's chest, and then repeats the motion, again and again, fostering a slow build of pleasure that ripples throughout his body. Holst moans beneath him, drawing back his legs so his knees flank Glenn, buffering him as he draws himself up and sinks back down, his back arched, head thrown back as he rides out another wave of wanting. 

Then Holst thrusts beneath him, a rising of his hips so surprising that Glenn audibly gasps. He bucks again, and again, and draining Glenn of the self-control he needs to continue to ride him. Glenn tips forward, whimpering weakly as Holst snaps his hips harder, quicker, with unfettered fervor. Holst catches him, his hands grasping his arms and easing him downward until Glenn belatedly props himself up on his own. 

"H-harder," Glenn pants, attempting to push himself back up, angling himself so that Holst finds that sensitive spot with him — the spot that forces all thoughts from his mind and tears broken, desperate sounds from his throat. 

Holst's hands migrate to his hips again, fingers digging into his skin, and he thrusts wildly, until Glenn is bouncing atop him with the force of it, whining and moaning as the tension of his pleasure builds. Holst drives into him, hitting that spot so thoroughly Glenn is pushed beyond any hope of holding back; he cries out, coming long and hard, his body shuddering even long after he has spent himself on Holst's stomach. 

The sight of him riding out his orgasm must be too much for Holst, because his soft moans and half-spoken swears become loud, gutteral groans, his body tensing as he nears his own release. It takes everything Glenn has not to topple over entirely, to clench himself around Holst and accept each aftershock of over-stimulation, until Holst finally pulls him close, moaning Glenn's name against his shoulder as he comes. 

Then they detangle themselves from each other to lie together, breathing heavily, Glenn's head atop Holst's chest, Holst idly running his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. 

"I'm happy," Holst confesses quietly. 

"Me too," Glenn replies groggily, because that's what tonight is for: allowing themselves to feel, to speak, to be. He can let himself be lulled into contentment by the soothing feeling of Holst's fingers roaming over his scalp, combing through his hair. And Holst, in turn, can allow himself to touch and hold, to keep Glenn close as their breathing evens out and they drift toward sleep. 

* * *

Glenn awakens to an empty bed. 

A glance toward the window shows that it's late morning. He sits up with a yawn, feeling sore in a satisfying way. Then he notices a sheet of paper on Holst’s pillow, a note hastily scribbled across it. 

Glenn picks it up and reads: 

> _Getting breakfast! Back soon. - H_

Beside his initial is a poorly sketched axe, nearly unrecognizable, obviously drawn by someone with no great artistic skill. Glenn rolls his eyes, but his lips quirk in amusement. 

He goes to his room to clean up and dress for the day, pulling on his layers and forcing a brush through his hair until he's worked out all the tangles. Then he wraps his hair into a bun and ties it off. 

Once presentable, he looks at the hairpin, still lying on the table where he left it the prior night. He picks it up, walks to the window, and watches his faint reflection as he pierces the bun with the sword. It suits him — decorative but modestly so, the blue sapphire glinting only when it catches the light at a perfect angle. 

He decides to wear it for the rest of his time in Derdriu, because right now, in this city, in this room, he has no responsibilities, no allegiances, no formal agreements. He can wear an expensive gift and even smile as he observes how it looks in his hair. 

Glenn may help keep Holst from acting out in stupid, reckless ways, but Holst has the opposite effect on him; he encourages Glenn to accept, and even indulge, a little stupidity. 

Simply put, the gift makes him happy. 

And that’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: The calm before the storm.


	5. glory on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have reached the end! Thank you so much for reading! It means a lot to me <3 
> 
> Please note that this chapter contains a battle scene and an injury/mentions of blood.

Holst has always had a complicated relationship with battle. 

Some of his best memories have taken place on the battlefield, with his axe in hand, success settling around him in the wake of fighting. The first time he felt a sense of pride was after his first skirmish, his father putting a hand on his shoulder and saying _good job_ , sounding as though he had never been prouder of him than he was in that moment. He remembers emerging from his first close-call unscathed, shaky relief bleeding into triumph. He remembers his most difficult battle, shortly before he enrolled in the Academy, and how he emerged victorious to a crowd of cheering villagers. And he remembers being cheered at the end of the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, and the way Glenn smiled at him in the wake of his win. 

Some of his worst memories have taken place on the battlefield as well. His very first kill still occasionally haunts his dreams, nightmares reminding him of how he had hesitated, how his father had scolded him, and how he had done it in the end — taken his very first life. He’s used to the killing now, but that first time left a mark on his mind. He’s also made decisions that have come with a cost, losing people to bloody battles that should not have resulted in such losses. And he has emerged from dangerous, near-death experiences questioning his own abilities — wondering if he should become head of Goneril after all. 

He thrives in battle — at times, it feels like fighting is the only area in which he excels — but he knows better than to truly love it. Because for all his prowess with his axe, Holst will never be skilled enough to prevent casualties, nor will he be guaranteed his own success simply because he knows how to land a swing. 

This point becomes clear shortly after he and Glenn return from Derdriu. The contentment of their brief vacation and the deepening of the feelings that exist between them are easily overshadowed by final certification exams, graduation planning, and the last class missions they must complete as part of their curriculum. 

Holst wants to spend more time with Glenn, knowing full well that graduation brings with it the end of many things, but they end up so busy, they barely have time for more than a quick meal or a brief exchange. Everything snaps back to normal to such an extent that it's almost as though he and Glenn never spent the weekend together, enjoying each other, forgetting their responsibilities. 

The shift back to neutrality would normally be upsetting for Holst, but it isn't — because at night, in the cover of darkness, they will sometimes slip into each other's rooms to remember, for a brief time, what it feels like to be free. 

Even those visits must come to a halt when the Golden Deer are handed their final mission — routing bandits in Alliance territory, a trip that is expected to span days. With the limited time left to them, Holst finds himself restless with the news, upset in that dangerous way of his, where drastic mitigation efforts overpower his thoughts — exactly what he has been trying to tone down since his return from defending his territory. As he struggles with those feelings, it's Balthus who proposes a solution while the three of them sit in a library and attempt to cram for their exams. 

"Glenn should come with us," he states as he idly flips through a book. "It's about time we get to see him in action again." 

"We're getting our own mission," Glenn replies without looking up from his notes. 

"I bet they'll let you come on ours instead," Balthus points out. "They're always going on and on about inter-house mission assistance." 

"Give me one good reason to spend several days in with the Golden Deer," Glenn replies, finally looking up at Balthus. 

Balthus grins. His eyes flick to Holst. Glenn looks at Holst, too. 

"Holst is not a reason," Glenn says in a voice so flat, neither of them can take him seriously. 

Balthus laughs. "Whatever you say." 

Holst shuts his book and kicks back his chair so he can stand, stretch, and clear his mind. "I'm going for a walk. I need a break." 

He leaves the library and then the building entirely, walking to the bridge where he and Glenn first met. He looks down as he had once months ago, thinking of that meeting and how their time here is now coming to a close. 

Only this time, he stays a safe distance away from the edge. He has already fallen, far too hard, maybe even a little too fast; dangling himself from this bridge can offer him nothing in comparison. 

Eventually, Glenn joins him on the bridge. He stands beside Holst, their shoulders nearly touching. 

"I'll get permission, if that's what you want," Glenn tells him. He, too, looks down at what lies below. 

"What happened to, 'Holst is not a reason?'" Holst asks quietly. 

"Do you want to be a reason?" 

Of course Holst wants to be a reason. He wants to spend their remaining time together. He wants to throw caution to the wind and hold Glenn's hand as they walk back to the library. He wants Glenn to look at the hairpin and think, _Maybe just for today_ , as he puts it in his hair. 

He wants to talk about a future where their trip to Derdriu becomes tradition, where they can travel across the country to see each other, kiss each other, whisper in bed together. Holst, who has never wanted anything more than to be the person he was born to be and achieve the heights that were set for him before his birth, wants a version of a future that includes Glenn. 

He looks at Glenn. Glenn is watching him with narrowed eyes. It's that look that makes Holst realize he's smiling that smile that Glenn hates so much — the one that spreads across his face whenever he's unhappy or losing himself to negative feelings. 

He does his best to stop smiling. "You want me to say it," he ventures. That is the only thing that Glenn has ever demanded of him — honesty. 

Glenn folds his arms. "Say whatever you want." 

_I want you_ , Holst thinks. _Come back to the Alliance with me. Take me to Fraldarius. Whatever we have to do, let's do it._

He says, "Come with us." 

Glenn nods. "Fine. I will." 

They go to battle together — and Holst learns yet another lesson about the cost of fighting. 

* * *

The battlefield is dusted with a light blanket of snow. As it is disturbed by the boots of marching students, it squelches into mud. The terrain makes fighting difficult, the ground slippery and hazardous. A light fog settles around them, the product of weather fighting against itself — wet wind from the sea warring with the cold air of the land until visibility suffers. The conditions are miserable for fighting, and even in his heavy armor, Holst is cold. 

The battle itself is more brutal than expected. What should be an easy final mission soon becomes fighting that lasts two full days, with students falling prey to the slick terrain, and then nearly falling to bandits in turn. 

During the first day, they manage to clean up many of the bandits, but the remainder scatter once night approaches, forcing the group to make camp and take turns keeping watch. 

Thoughts of celebrating victory around a campfire are abandoned. Holst and Balthus keep watch first, followed by another set of students, and then Glenn volunteers to sit the last watch with Hanneman. In the morning, everyone is tired, and the hunt for bandits doesn't help their morale. When they finally encounter the remainder, the fighting is sloppy, exhausting, and dangerous. 

In the midst of the battle, Holst cuts through several of the bandits, trying to reach the students who falter under fatigue, landing strike after strike until his muscles burn and his chest heaves with the effort. His axe grows heavy in his hand, but still he hoists it up and over, striking until the bandits fall. Until — 

"Glenn!" 

Holst pulls his axe free of yet another bandit and turns, looking for Balthus, whose voice is loud with stark concern. Balthus is a good distance away, surrounded by bandits, whom he struggles to quickly defeat so he can reach — 

Glenn, who has galloped forward upon his white horse to place himself in front of a large wolf-like beast, who looks every part a brave and daring knight as he raises his lance, but who will not be able to fell a beast of that size on his own. 

Holst is running before his brain catches up with the action, forgetting the soreness in his arms, the tired protest of his body. His feet slide dangerously in the mud but he pushes onward, passing Balthus, who takes down one of his bandits, and then reaching Glenn in time to see him knocked from his horse. Glenn loses his lance as he hits the ground, leaving him vulnerable before the beast. He has no time to unsheathe his sword, so he attempts to attack with Faith magic before the wolf bears down on him again. But the fall has dulled his movements — he won’t be able to attack in time. 

But he doesn't need to — not now that Holst is there to throw himself on top of Glenn as the beast's claws reach out for him. Holst covers Glenn’s body with his own — protecting him. 

Glenn looks at him, wide-eyed, and therefore must see when it happens — when the claws slice through the armor on his back, shredding it as easily as paper, piercing his skin and raking through it. Holst grits his teeth and smiles at Glenn, feeling wild with adrenaline. 

Balthus manages to reach them before the beast can attack again. He distracts it long enough for Holst to force himself to his feet and Glenn to follow suit. Once upright, Holst feels faith magic course over his back, but does not turn around to look at Glenn — not yet. 

First, they must slay the beast. 

The three of them spread out and take turns attacking from different angles — Holst with his axe, Glenn with his sword, and Balthus with his gauntlets. It takes several attacks, depleting what little energy they had, but in the end, the beast finally falls. 

Once it has finally been defeated, Balthus jogs toward Holst, yelling, "Hey, Holst!” 

"Are you alright?" Holst asks Glenn, who kept his left arm tucked tightly against his side throughout the fight. "Is your arm —" 

"Your back," Glenn interrupts, extending a hand toward him, as though afraid that Holst might fall. "I healed what I could, but —" 

"Holst," Balthus says again now that he's reached him. He, too, holds out a hand. "You're bleeding pretty bad." 

"Glenn healed me," he states, but as the words leave his mouth he realizes that he is in pain — that his back burns and feels slick in what remains of his shredded armor, that he's cold in a way that has little to do with the weather. 

"I'm going to heal you again," Glenn tells him. He attempts to summon the magic, but struggles in his exhaustion. 

"Over here!" Balthus yells off to the distance, likely to the rest of the group, who surely must be done fighting by now. Then, to Holst, he says, "Maybe you should sit down. You look — whoa, okay —" 

Holst must lose footing, because the next thing he knows, Balthus' arm is around his waist and he's being eased to the ground. 

"— heal him already," Balthus mutters. 

"I'm _trying_ —" Glenn whispers tightly. 

"Where's your horse?" Holst slurs, vaguely realizing they haven't checked on her yet — that she could have also been hurt during the beast’s initial attack. 

"Sweet Pea's fine," Glenn replies distractedly, finally finding enough energy to summon his faith magic. 

Holst closes his eyes. "You called her Sweet Pea." 

"That's her name, isn't it?" Glenn asks, sounding strained and tired. 

"Sure is," Holst mumbles. 

He feels the warmth of healing magic surround him as he slips into unconsciousness. 

* * *

When Holst awakens, he’s lying facedown on a cot. His back protests painfully as he attempts to roll over and look around. 

"Ouch," he says to his pillow, deciding to stay face down until absolutely necessary. 

He hears someone stir beside him and turns his head to see Glenn sitting up in the cot beside him. His arm is in a sling. 

"You're awake," Glenn says, sounding half asleep himself. His hair is a mess — tangled and sticking out in places. 

The sight makes Holst smile, but only briefly. He looks back down at the sling. "Is it broken?" 

"It was." Glenn gently lifts his arm, then allows it to drop. "It's fully healed now, but I need to use the sling for a couple of days to make sure it sets properly." 

"I take it my back isn't fully healed yet?" Holst asks. "It hurts a lot more than a healed back should." 

Glenn's expression turns grim. "You will need to be healed a few more times. The wounds were very deep." 

"I figured." 

They fall quiet for a few minutes, Glenn trying to smooth down his hair, Holst thinking about how nice it would be if he could move around freely. 

Eventually, Holsts asks, "Why'd you do it?" 

"Do what?" Glenn drops his hand, giving up on his hair. 

"Throw caution to the wind and put yourself in danger," Holst elaborates. 

"You mean run into battle head first?" Glenn counters, an argument building in his tone. "Isn't that how you do it? I saw the way you were working through those bandits." 

"That's my style, not yours." Holst attempts to push himself up into a sitting position, as it's easier to have a serious conversation when he isn't prone. The pain quickly forces him to give up. "So why?" 

"There was a beast. I was free to attack it." Glenn exhales a frustrated breath. "What was I supposed to do? Stand around and wait for it to go after someone?" 

"You could have called for someone to back you up," Holst says, his tone tending toward frustrated now — an unusual place for it to dip. "Or retreat until you had a better vantage. You had your horse, you could have easily —" 

"I didn't come on this mission so you could berate the decisions that I make during battle," Glenn snaps, cutting him off. 

Now upset enough to summon his strength, Holst clenches his teeth and pushes himself up into a sitting position, successfully this time. "I didn't invite you so you could throw yourself into danger for _no reason_." 

"No reason?" Glenn stands so he can pace around Holst now. "Protecting the others isn't a good enough reason for you? Protecting _you_?" 

"No!" Holst yells, curling his hands into fists and slamming them onto his cot. The quick movement causes fresh pain to sear through his back. 

Glenn stops pacing to observe Holst. A long moment of silence passes, and then he says quietly, "Balthus was right. You can get pretty angry." 

That deflates Holst. "He said that?" 

Glenn moves to stand in front of him. "Something like that. You're whole body's shaking." 

Holst tries to unclench his fists. He takes a steadying breath. "It's not anger. Not really." 

It's a reaction born from fear. He's angry because had Holst not reached him, Glenn would have taken the full brunt of the attack. And it would have landed differently — sliced through his front instead of his back, and maybe, too deeply for him to survive long enough to be healed. 

Glenn touches his face — a light brush of fingertips across his cheek, and then over his lips. "I don’t mind it. It's part of who you are." 

"Yeah," Holst sighs. "It is." 

"What I did earlier is part of who I am," Glenn tells him. 

Holst knows it's true. Glenn is a knight. No matter what the two of them may do in the darkness of the night, when they are alone and unseen, no matter the words they exchange in hushed tones, Glenn still adheres to his duty. He will throw himself into harm's way again if need be. 

"I know," Holst replies. 

"If you can't accept that..." Glenn trails off, the implication too heavy to be named. 

"I can accept it," Holst says quickly. "If you can accept that it's going to upset me every time." 

Glenn laughs, the rare sound easing some of the tension within Holst. "You are the only person who has ever told me to hold back," he says, leaning in so that their foreheads touch. "Thank you." 

Glenn kisses him slowly, carefully, his lips gentle and considerate, a quiet acceptance. Holst kisses him back equally as tenderly, forgetting about their argument, the battle, and what they could have lost. He focuses only on Glenn, who is warm and alive, who embraces Holst at his worst and urges him to be his best, who pulls back with a fond smile and looks truly happy as he speaks once more. 

"You saved my life again. Your life debt is officially paid off." 

Holst smiles — and means it. "Let's stop keeping count." Because he'd do it again without question — and he knows Glenn would too. 

"Good," Glenn replies, "because I did heal you before you could bleed out..." 

Then it's Holst's turn to laugh. 

* * *

Whereas Glenn is free of his sling within a couple of days, it takes Holst a full week before he's able to move without feeling sharp pain sear through his back. It takes him another week of training before he feels like he's back to his old strength again, able to lift an axe without the weight growing unbearable. 

When he's officially declared recovered enough to test for his final certification exam, the Pegasus Moon is drawing to a close and the Lone Moon is rising in its wake. Graduation looms before them, but instead of delving into books and notes for last-minute studies, Holst sits in his room with Glenn, bearing his back for him to see. 

"How does it look?" he asks. 

Holst has always had the unfortunate tendency to scar. From as far back as he can remember, he has suffered the permanence of his mistakes — the raised slivers of skin betraying his blunders, each jagged edge a chronicle of failure. He has always looked upon himself as a man decorated not with the badges of victory, but with the shackles of deficiencies: had he not swung too soon, he would not have a burst of marred skin on his side; had he not swung too late, he would not have a mismatched patch of skin on his thigh; had he been quicker, he would not have been grazed by an arrow across his cheek. 

For all his bravado in sharing his stories and brandishing the evidence for his peers, Holst has never worn his scars proudly. 

Except now, in this room, as Glenn's fingertips trace each scar across his back, Holst thinks that these are scars he can wear without regret. These scars do not speak of failure, but rather, of success. 

"I like them," Glenn says right before Holst feels the soft press of his lips set against his shoulder blade, the caress of a kiss following the path of the scar. "They look good." Glenn’s breath is warm on his skin. 

_They do,_ Holst silently agrees, thinking he's had it wrong all along. All this time, he's been fighting to prove something, to make a name for himself, to be the best regardless of the cost — when he should have been figuring out what truly matters to him. 

When he considers worrying less about his image and more about living a meaningful life with the people who are most important to him, he feels free. 

When he reaches back to take Glenn's hand — when he turns to face him, to kiss him, to keep him close — he feels at peace. 

* * *

After considering his priorities, it's easy for Holst to make a decision that places his academics second in his life. When Glenn invites him on an outing the same day on which his exam is scheduled, Holst decides to skip the exam and take it the following week instead — regardless of his dwindling opportunities for retakes, should he fail. Whereas once before the idea might be unthinkable, now it seems easy: Holst wants to spend his remaining time with Glenn. 

They fly upon Maggie northward, into Faerghus, the chill in the air growing colder the further they travel. Though Glenn handles flying better now that he has ridden Maggie a couple of times, Holst asks him to hold on to him as he had on their trip to Derdriu so he can relish the extra body heat. As they fly, the ground below them becomes increasingly covered in snow. It is clear that winter has no intention of releasing Faerghus from its hold any time soon. 

The sights are unfamiliar to Holst, who has only been on the outskirts of Faerghus once before to rout bandits, but Glenn guides the way from behind him. Eventually, he calls for Holst to land, and they do, descending into a wooded area and settling in ankle-deep snow. 

Once dismounted, Holst looks around and notices that they are near a large lake — one that was concealed from their high vantage point, given that it is completely frozen and entirely blanketed in snow. 

"You weren't kidding when you said it would be cold," Holst observes, looking down at where the snow is threatening to seep into his boots. 

Glenn ignores that in favor of retrieving something from his bag. "Here, put these on." He holds out a pair of modified boots that have a finely shaved bone lining the bottom. "They should fit. I asked Balthus for your size." 

"I don't know if I can walk in those," Holst tells him, though he takes them. 

"You won't be walking." With that, Glenn walks over to the lake and blasts it with his Faith magic, sending snow billowing in all directions, clearing a large section of the lake. 

Holst leans against Maggie to take off his old boots, then pulls on the new ones. As expected, once he attempts to walk in them, he wobbles dangerously. Glenn soon joins him and changes into his own strange, bone-lined boots, sparing the occasional glance to watch as Holst tries to move in his. 

When Glenn is done, he approaches Holst with considerably less difficulty than Holst has in taking steps forward. "Ready?" he asks. 

"I don't know what I'm supposed to be ready for," Holst says, "but I'm pretty sure the answer is 'no.'" 

Glenn smiles. Holst has noticed that he's been doing that more lately. It's contagious, too, because he also grins, even though he's certain he's close to falling over. 

"You gave me a gift. Now I'm giving you one." Glenn takes Holst's arm to steady him and begins to lead him to the lake. "Fun." 

If asked about his idea of fun, Holst definitely wouldn't have put frozen lakes and ice cold snow at the top of the list before this trip, but seeing Glenn smile and offer up a piece of his home, as Holst had for him in taking him to Derdriu, Holst decides to reevaluate his definition of _fun_. 

But that can come later. Right now, he needs to focus on walking — and once they reach the ice, on _skating_. 

"We'll go slow," Glenn promises as they step onto the ice and Holst scrambles for balance, gripping his arm tightly. "Bend your knees a little." 

Holst very shakily bends his knees. He decides against speaking until he's absolutely positive that the force of his voice won't knock him over, because right now, it feels like the slightest movement will send him toppling. 

"Now try to move with me. Kick off one foot, and then the other." Glenn makes the motion with one of his feet without moving at first, then follows up by actually kicking off the ice and guiding the both of them forward. 

Holst does not manage to lift his foot. He allows Glenn to pull him forward with both feet still planted, wobbling all the while. 

Glenn looks torn between fond exasperation and amusement as he leads Holst across the ice. 

Holst decides to attempt speaking, even if it risks his very tentative balance. "I think —" he tries, then breaks off when one of his feet does something he definitely did not tell it to. When he recovers, he attempts to speak again. "I think I'm made for land. Not ice." 

"You’ll be fine,” Glenn replies. "I'm going to let you go —" 

" _What?_ " Holst exclaims. 

"— so you can start by watching me." 

Holst is not proud of the fact that Glenn has to literally pry him off of his arm — nor is he proud of the fact that the very first thing he does upon being released is fall right on his ass. "I'll just...sit here," he decides out loud. 

Glenn huffs out an amused breath. Upon hearing it, Holst decides that maybe sitting on the cold ice isn't so bad after all. 

Glenn skates backwards, calling out a few tips as he puts some distance between himself and Holst, offering exaggerated examples of how to lift his feet and move, as well as ways to maintain balance. Then he turns in place and begins to _really_ skate. 

The sight is mesmerizing. Glenn yells out instructions here and there, but Holst can barely pay attention to them, busy as he is watching Glenn glide on the ice like he was made for it. His body is easily balanced, his movements are lithe, and his hair — 

_His hair_ , Holst thinks, sitting up straighter in an attempt to see it better — the glint of something metallic fastened in his bun. 

The hairpin. 

Glenn hadn't been wearing it when they left. He must have brought it with him to wear it for this occasion — for their time together. Seeing it now, Holst is overwhelmed by a flood of emotion, by what it means for Glenn to wear his gift beyond their weekend of freedom. 

His heart is beating quickly when Glenn skates up to him and comes to an abrupt halt. "Are you listening?" Glenn asks. 

"No." Holst's voice is as weak as his legs, and he must look ridiculous, a large man sitting on cold ice, unable to balance himself on his own. He decides to say it anyway, appearances be damned, because he can. Because he _wants_ to say it. And so he does, in a rush of a breath, completely on impulse: "I love you." 

Glenn does not startle at this confession. If anything, he looks mildly annoyed. "Finally," he says flatly, bending to attempt to help Holst up to his feet. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't tell me." 

Holst does his best to rise without falling. "You were waiting for me? Why didn't you say something?" 

Glenn's voice turns strained as he attempts to bear Holst's weight. "I pushed you enough. It had to come from you." 

Holst wants to say, _You didn't push me_ , but as he forms the words he realizes what it must seem like from Glenn's perspective — the way Holst continuously held back, the formal courting practices he introduced into their relationship, his decision to leave most of the initiating to Glenn. 

"I —" he attempts to reply, but his balance fails miserably. His feet slip out from under him and he falls backwards, neglecting to release Glenn in the process, thereby pulling him down with him. Holst falls on his back and Glenn falls on top of him with a low grunt. 

It hurts in the best way possible. Holst grins at Glenn, who glares at him in that way he does whenever Holst is pushing his buttons in just the right way. 

"I love you," Holst tells him again, embracing Glenn and pulling him as close as he can. "I love you," he says again, raising his head so he can kiss Glenn before Glenn can fuss at him. He kisses him deeply, passionately, with everything he's felt up until now and everything he will continue to feel thereafter. 

When he breaks the kiss, it's so he can say, again, "I love you." 

For some reason, it's the last one that affects Glenn, a faint blush coloring his already wind-chapped cheeks. "I get it," he says. "You don't have to keep saying it." 

Holst may not have to keep saying it, but that doesn't mean he isn't going to think it, and grin while doing so. It doesn't mean he's going to let Glenn get away so quickly, or that he won't kiss him again, and again, no matter how cold he feels, no matter how damp his clothes have become. 

After yet another kiss, Glenn places his hand on Holst's chest to keep him from distracting him further. "I love you too," he says as he rises. "Now get up." 

* * *

Over the next couple of hours, Holst learns how to skate. He is far from graceful and he falls often, but he eventually manages to glide from one point to another without continuously losing balance. Most importantly, he has fun, and so does Glenn, especially once Holst learns to enjoy the sport. 

Afterward, they light a fire so they can dry off before traveling back to Garreg Mach in the cold wind. Holst huddles against Glenn for extra warmth, the biting cold once again invading his senses. 

"I'm leaving next week," Glenn admits as he stares into the fire. "The king has requested my presence for a visit to Duscur." 

Holst feels his earlier elation wilt, but he isn't all that surprised by this news, considering that Glenn asked him to skip out in his exam. Holst knew there had to be a good reason, otherwise this outing could have waited. 

"What about graduation?" he asks, putting his arm around Glenn and pulling him close. 

"The letter said I'll be back before the end of the month." Glenn rests his head against him. "I should be able to make the ceremony." 

"Good." Glenn deserves to participate in graduation. He's worked hard for it, and more than that, he deserves a final celebration before his life is once again fully dedicated to serving a crown. "Otherwise I'd tell you to play sick so you can stay here." 

"I wouldn't be able to do that unless I was on my deathbed,” Glenn replies. "This is an important visit. I'm attending not only as a knight, but also as a representative for Fraldarius. The future right hand of the king." 

Holst nearly speaks the words he knows would be unfair and unkind: _What if I don't want you to go? What if I asked you to leave with me?_ But he is aware the answer would be the same if Glenn posed the questions to him: _I can't_. 

So he holds Glenn a little tighter and says instead, "I'll wait for you. Even if you miss graduation. I'm not going anywhere until you come back." 

"I'll request some time off after graduation," Glenn tells him. "For training." 

"Can you do that?" Holst asks, wondering if he can swing the same — if he can convince his parents to delay his transition into even greater responsibility. 

Glenn shrugs against him. "I can try." 

"Me too," Holst decides. "I'll find a way." Being the perfect son and heir is secondary to getting to spend time with Glenn again, considering it may be their last opportunity to see each other for a very long time. 

This is more important. _Glenn_ is more important. 

Glenn shifts in his arms, moving to retrieve something he's hidden away in his layers of clothing. Then he holds it up: a bronze brooch with a silver inlay fashioned in the design of the Fraldarius crest. 

It is the very same brooch that Glenn wore during the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus Founding Day festivities. 

Holst takes it from him. He examines it, running his gloved fingers over the surface. Though it is well-polished, it is obvious that the clasp is an heirloom, as it has been worn down by time. 

And like the hairpin Holst gave Glenn, the brooch is weighted with meaning. 

"Don’t you need this?” he asks. "For your trip?” The brooch is ornamental, meant to be worn during important events. Surely, the royal family and Glenn’s father both will notice it is missing. 

"All I need,” Glenn replies, "is to know whether or not you will accept it.” 

"I do. Of course I do.” Holst sits up straight and removes his arm from Glenn so he can take off the brooch that currently holds his cloak closed. He sets it aside and clasps Glenn’s brooch on his cloak in its place. 

Glenn watches as he fastens it and then smooths down his cloak. 

"What do you think?” Holst asks. 

"It suits you.” Glenn touches the brooch, then lays his hand on Holst’s chest, right over his heart. 

Holst smiles; he feels his eyes crinkle with true, uninhibited happiness. "You suit me.” 

He kisses Glenn until Glenn climbs onto his lap and wraps his arms around his neck. 

Then he kisses Glenn some more. 

* * *

Glenn leaves shortly after the start of the Lone Moon, his departure day bringing with it dark clouds that foretell rain. He dresses in his typical travel attire, but wears an unusually extravagant pin in his hair. 

Holst and Balthus see him off together. 

Balthus gives Glenn a hug, which surprises everyone, including Balthus himself. "Don’t be late for graduation,” he mumbles as he awkwardly pats Glenn on the back. 

"So we can spar one last time?” Glenn asks dryly, belatedly placing his hand on Batlhus’ back. 

"Nah,” Balthus replies. "I think we both know you got me beat.” 

"Don’t sell yourself short,” Glenn chides as they pull away from each other. "You’re the King of Grappling.” 

Balthus looks incredibly pleased as he steps back to give Holst and Glenn some privacy. 

"Don’t do anything stupid when I’m gone,” Glenn tells Holst as he walks up to him to adjust the brooch that clasps his cloak closed. "And keep this hidden.” He taps the brooch. 

"No more big risks,” Holst promises, a decision he made some time ago, but means now more than ever. "Will you write?” 

"I will,” Glenn promises. 

They hug. Out in the open like this, they must keep their affection restrained, but when Glenn pulls away, Holst catches his hand and brings it to his lips, brushing a light kiss over the top of his knuckles. 

Glenn gives him an affectionately annoyed look. Then he smiles one last time and mounts Sweet Pea. 

"Travel safely!” Holst yells as Glenn rides to join the entourage that will escort him back to Faerghus. 

While he watches Glenn disappear into the distance, Balthus steps up to him. He eyes the brooch, then looks at the wistful expression on Holst’s face. 

"He’ll be married before long,” Balthus reminds him. 

"I know,” Holst replies. 

"So will you.” 

"I know,” Holst says again. 

"But if anyone can figure it out,” Balthus adds. "It’s you two stubborn jerks.” 

He's right. They will make it work, regardless of the difficulties. They will carve out a piece of their future for each other and allow themselves the time to be happy, in love, and free. 

Balthus grins at him. Holst grins back. 

"Come on,” Balthus says, throwing an arm around Holst’s shoulder. "Let’s get some food.” 

As they walk to the dining hall together, thunder rumbles in the distance, warning them of a storm to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whose business  
> but mine is it if now, when I grieve, I grieve  
> this way: crown in hand, little flowers of gold?   
>  \- Carl Phillips, "Glory On”
> 
> ***
> 
> Please check out [this breathtaking art](https://twitter.com/quintokki/status/1283616801025331200) of the ice skating scene by @quintokki. It's beautiful. Thank you so much!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm [undeadlifting]() on Twitter.


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